A Series of Short Events
by 2DaughtersOfAthena
Summary: A collection of short stories and drabbles.
1. Chapter 1: A Chance Encounter

**Another drabble for y'all! Enjoy!**

 **House: Ravenclaw , Category: Drabble , Prompt: Fred/Hermione , WC: 881**

 **AU, Post-OOTP, a couples of years after Hogwarts.**

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A jarring wall of sound and colour hurls itself upon me as I traipse inside the store after Harry and Ron. Weasley's Wizard Wheezes has always been this level of crazy since it opened, so you might assume I would be used to it. However, today I'm really not feeling like being amongst the crowds of strangers, hoping not to brush into anyone. But there are people everywhere, reaching across each other for the products that seem to manifest in every inch of the shop.

It is amazing, this place. The twins have done a great job making it the easiest place in the world in which to distract any person. Balancing balls, towers of magic tricks, and catastrophic amounts of cards charmed to flutter like birds around the high ceilings. Harry and Ron jab each other in the arm and race off, running in one direction, already absorbed into the crowd before I can begin to consider following them. Through the hoards, I spot a redhead. Whoever they are, let's hope they're friendly.

Haphazard shelves seem to revolve around me, coming into being from every direction. I spin out of their way. Colours of the people blur before my eyes. It's a mixture of wonderful and horrifying. Despite being an adult now, coming into toy stores are generally a happy experience. However, one aspect of adulthood is the fact that everything becomes ten times more stressful. So, on the one hand it's fabulous to enjoy the time around toys and fun. One the other hand, I am dying on the inside. Do I need some air? You know, I think I'll be fine. Just like Dory said, _just keep swimming._

Elbowing my way through the people, I finally come to an area where fewer strangers are congregated. Deftly, I make my way up the stairs, dodging the various items Fred and George have so eloquently balanced on top of one another. Gosh. And breathe.

"Hermione!" someone shouts from several metres away, meaning their voice is barely heard above the din. "Down here! It's Fred!" Suddenly I see him. He's running up the stairs to greet me. "How goes the day Young Granger?"

I scowl.

"It goes. And I'm not young!" I argue, slapping him on the arm. Fred shrinks away from me, opening his mouth in pain as if I just broke his arm. _Honestly._ What an idiot.

"Fine. Crotchety, ancient Granger," he alters, in a mocking tone. I laugh, then glance around the store for Harry and Ron. When can we leave? "You look stressed. Everything alright?" My head whips back around to stare at Fred, confused by his sudden expression. He can't possibly care.

"I need some air, that's all," I admit, not quite certain of him right now.

"Then let's go," he nods towards the door.

Together, we push through the people. Several of them call out to him, but he quickly waves them off. George salutes and tips an imaginary hat as we leave, while I am finally able to breathe a little easier at last. The lack of strangers pressing against me is definitely a calming thing.

"You've both done really well," I tell him, finally leaning against the wall of the store. He smiles and raises an eyebrow.

"Was that a compliment?"

"Yes. I'm not repeating myself," I murmur. He laughs. "It's weird, I haven't seen you around recently." Weasley family dinners have been strangely calm compared to what we might consider normality. Fred and George elected to be absent in lieu of making some big changes to the shop. It's good, but it doesn't mean that I don't miss their slightly crazy antics.

"Yeah, lots going on," he muses, glancing around at the bright colours of his shop. "I've missed your ridiculously admonishing presence."

" _Fred_."

"We should get a drink together sometime," he notes casually, as if it is the simplest thing in the world. In the meantime, my heart stops and my face floods with heat. But then he doesn't say anything. He's waiting for me. Oh _Merlin. Because that's just insane._

"Funny," I mutter, assuming it must be a joke. Because if it isn't, then what? It's not as though I haven't considered it… Once? Twice, maybe. His personality is attractive. Endearing. But the thought of it is terrifying.

"I'm completely serious," he says, laughing. "You haven't seen this face before." I smile, nervously albeit. "I like you."

My mind goes blank. _That's ridiculous._

"Why?"

"You're annoying," Fred states, as if that's a viable reason. I don't think it is. He stares down at the ground, waiting. Then speaks again. "We could go as friends… If you want?"

"Okay."

"Really?"

"Merlin, Fred," I laugh. "Yes." He grins, looking back up at me.

"Tomorrow, seven thirty," he declares loudly, raising one fist in the air. I frown.

"I'm busy every night for the next three months."

"You're joking!" he exclaims, face falling.

"Yeah, I am." I laugh at his ridiculous expression. "Tomorrow is great."

"It's a date." He pauses. "Or not, it's up to you!"

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	2. Chapter 2: Party at Grimmauld Place

**Hello! So I'm having some issues with computer typing. Which means it's probably going to take me longer to get things up and online, but it should be fine in a couple weeks when I have better access again. For now, a short piece.**

 **House: Ravenclaw, Category: Short, Prompt: Grimmauld Place, WC: 1314**

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Grimy. Crumbling. Uncomfortable.

Those were the words one might normally use to describe Number 12 Grimmauld Place. Because it was indeed grimy, and certainly crumbling, and most definitely uncomfortable. Centuries-old paint peeled away from dried-out skirting boards and coving, acquaintances with the damp and the mould. Its green tinge blended with the greying house colours of the Black Family. Geriatric wallpaper folded in on itself, showing the cracks and backs instead of the Paisley patterns. On a normal occasion, the house lived off a staple diet of grey and green, entirely alone and empty. On a normal occasion, the dank rooms would echo their own silence to the grumbling of Mrs Black. On a normal occasion, there would not be a party going on.

"Three cheers for the happy couple!" George hollered, raising his bottle of butterbeer to the dusty ceiling, now peppered with multicoloured sequins - earlier on in the day, the Weasley family had taken the liberty of decorating the whole miserable place. Streamers hung jauntily from every corner of the room, glittering and reflecting fragments of every colour. Balloons were grouped along the sides of tables, cupboards, and windows. Bunting flew from one end of the kitchen to the other, flapping around in the nonexistent wind.

Unafraid in the ex-hideout, the rest of the group cheered noisily back, sloshing butterbeer down heir fronts in jovial spirits. Harry and Ginny smiled almost weakly to each over, knowing that the night was going to be a long, and exhausting one. But they knew that they would also have fun. As Fred draped a ridiculous garland around each of their necks, the two clinked classes and drank along with the rest of their slightly crazy family.

"Music!" Mrs Weasley squealed, rushing to the wireless in the corner, causing the twins to groan in exaggerated agony.

"Wait!" Harry called out, placing a gentle arm around his fiancées shoulders, much to her chagrin. "I just want to say thanks to everyone for this. And thank you to my fantastic fiancée. Without whom, Merlin knows where I would be." Ginny blushed a furious red, hitting Harry on the shoulder. But he knew it was okay because she couldn't quite stop smiling. Especially not when Hermione rushed over and begged to talk about everything ever. Sheesh. Girls.

One of the things he never really thought about was getting married. Harry Potter was not a romantic, nor was he particularly extroverted. But now that he was almost halfway there, it felt intense. It was going to be a big event, by the sounds of whatever the heck Mrs Weasley was talking about. Which, to Harry, sounded like one big nightmare waiting to happen. He wouldn't mind the basic, run of the mill wedding in a nice field somewhere. He was marrying Ginny, it didn't matter who attended other than him, Ginny, and a Minster of some sort. But with the Weasley's comes the huge family, and he crazy parties. He liked that too.

"Congratulations mate," Ron shouted, a little drunk already by the sound of it. He squeezed in between Harry and the wall, completely forgoing any sense of a personal bubble, which made Harry laugh a little harder. Ron clapped his friend on the back, grinning toothily and wobbling very slightly to the left. Harry tried to wrap an arm around him to hold him steady, but Ron was having none of it. It didn't matter. That congratulations was all the blessing Harry really wanted from anyone; for his best friend to be okay with it. The two men stood - well, leaned - side by side, drinks in hand, joking like bothers.

The music blared into the kitchen, ricocheting around the room the dulcet tones of Gertrude Grimoire accompanying the Weird Sisters. Not Harry's special favourite, but Ginny was soon dancing from one chair to the next, followed by the enthused twins, and Fleur - perhaps doing the strangest dance of them all. She waved her arms frivolously, and jiggled her knees to a beat that certainly did not match that of the song. By the end of 'Bottom's Up', the whole of the room were slamming their hands on the table in laughter. Harry grabbed hold of Ginny's hand as she clambered down to him, stumbling inelegantly towards the wall. He squeezed her tight against him, revelling in the warmth of the alcohol, and the vague comfort from their near-family supporting the both of them.

It seemed as though hours blended into minutes. Minutes into seconds. Before long, Harry's head was full of colour and rattling noise, as the exuberant crowd of people seemed to explode with even more noise with every passing minute. He was lightheaded, spinning ever so slightly like one of those ridiculous muggle toys Dudley used to love. Faces swam before his eyes, each as red and joyful as the last, of family and friends, and all of the people he really loved in the world. From a great distance, someone tapped him on the shoulder. A mass of ginger people, all taller than himself, hovering in the white zone of his clouded vision. The tallest of them all asked,

"You alright, Harry?"

"Fantastic thanks!" He replied instantly, still trying to work out who it was. Who it must be. Well, it must be Bill. Taller than all of the Weasley's put together, it sometimes felt. Broader, larger, older than Harry, and what almost seemed like most people in the world. "How are you?"

"Good thanks. We need to have a chat in the hallway." Bill gestured to behind Harry where the kitchen door was very slightly ajar. On his way out, Harry was desperately wracking his brain. Was there something important he was supposed to have done? Or was there something he had to talk to them about? No matter. He better sober up and quickly. He had forgotten that he needed to be on the ball. He had forgotten that he couldn't relax, even on the day of his engagement party. He swore internally.

"It's just protocol, mate," Ron attempted to reassure him. "She's our sister." So it has something to do with Ginny? Harry swallowed thickly, hoping that he wasn't about to be beaten up. That would put a downer on the party, for sure. "What's first?"

"Don't mess her around," Bill said, having raised his hand in claim. He glanced to the twins.

"If you hurt her..." Fred began.

"We'll have to kill you," George finished in an almost bored tone. The casual remark alone almost made Harry laugh. But he could only look to Ron now, waiting for the finale of what was clearly the brotherly threatenings.

"What was it, George? We're wizards and will separate your body if you hurt her feelings?" George nodded, and Ron turned to Harry. "Yeah, that." Harry merely grinned at them all, as they folded their arms in a vain attempt to look even just a little bit more serious about the whole thing. But then Bill clapped Harry on the shoulder, laughing out loud. For a moment, Harry was absolutely terrified. Separate his body? Death? Serious threats, those.

"We know you're a good bloke," Bill said.

"Congratulations mate," Ron repeated from earlier. Before closing the curtains of the voracious Mrs black, the brothers drank to Quidditch and roared a cheer of celebration in a way of many congratulations.

"You know," Ginny was saying much later, draped in the duvet of an old bedroom. "I'm glad I said yes."

"Because you love me?" Harry asked.

"Well. That too," she laughed easily, throwing her arms out wide in a stretch. Harry smiled and tumbled into the bed to her, tired all at once. She kissed him as they both fell into sleep.

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	3. Chapter 3: Tomorrow

**In the morning, Hermione has to leave with Harry and Ron to find Horcruxes. But right now, she can spend this one moment with Fred, hoping not to think of what is yet to come.**

 **House: Ravenclaw , Category: Drabble , Prompt: Tomorrow , WC: 341**

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Today, I'm allowed to wade curiously into the dying sunlight. It illuminates our fingers, our arms, our shoulders. We are glowing gold in these diminishing fingers of light. He stays with me, trailing behind the dust mites that find solitude from the shadows of his room in the burrow. We revel in this moment, escaping for short periods of time from the others and the darkness outside. We stand, watching the glow just above the horizon from his window.

His red hair ablaze with shimmering, shifting yellow hues, talking to me about the days to come. Even though we both know that these are days which may never come. Days in which we can all live in the light together, free from the wrappings of our secret and the purge of Voldemort.

He promises these days as if they are his to give, and as if they are mine for the taking.

He speaks of tomorrow as if it is a gift to be given.

But it has two meanings really, doesn't it? One being literal: the coming of the next day. The other being more metaphorical. Tomorrow can be a symbol of things that are to come, and mostly of better times resting tantalising on the horizon of the present - like a sunrise about to bust above the surface.

I think I am oscillating between those two meanings. But actually, tomorrow does not bring something good. We, the Golden Trio, are adventuring into the beyond to find the dark pieces of Voldemort's unsteady soul. And yet, I am being spoken to about the good of tomorrow.

Outside, it's surely already on its way.

It doesn't mean we can't speak of tomorrow.

I would just rather spend these moments in the sunset with him, crowded in with the old packing boxes for the shop, and my books halfway into the beaded bag. I would rather live today, this moment, forever, in exchange for the day after this.

And yet, tomorrow is always on its way.


	4. Chapter 4: That Stupid Wet Towel

**You know the drill! House: Ravenclaw, Category: Short (Additional for Prefect), Prompt: Wet towel, WC: 1015**

 **Disclaimer: Muggledom, so obviously an AU thingy.**

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Stress is something that I have always experienced. It's always going to be in my life. But the one thing is that it doesn't consume me - at least, hardly not ever. It doesn't plague me, but it certainly is constant. For some people, the stress eats away at them. It gnaws away at their minds, weighs heavily on their chests. For me, it's just... Present. Always there.

Yet, as soon as I'm stepping under the hot faucet of the water in the shower, having just returned home, things seem a little easier. The scalding water is a shockwave to my entire system. It calms my frayed nerves, and reinforces the comfort of home. Today was long, and it was exhausting. There were too many things that went wrong, and too many people that were bothering me. Having this routine helps at the end of every day. Come in, have a shower, and return to some level of control over an otherwise bonkers lifestyle.

The liquid slides over me as I lather shampoo into my hair, it foaming far too quickly. Being in a stuffy office can sometimes be claustrophobic. It leaves your skin with a grimy touch, as though the paper and the ink have stuck to you throughout the day. But here I can go through the motions. Shave my legs. Comb through my hair and rinse out the conditioner. Revel in the warmth and the hot steam.

Water off. A few seconds to breathe. I reach around the shower curtain for my towel, feeling fresh as a damn daisy.

"Are you kidding me..." I mutter, my hand snapping back from the towel. Jesus. Wet _again_.

Furious, I stand naked in the basin for a few seconds, eventually deciding to bite the bullet and throw the damp thing around my body. It's gross, and a complete anti-climax from such a glorious shower. At least it's covering me while I have this conversation. I say conversation. I mean argument. The floor is covered with the splash from the shower, making it slippery. In my haste to not fall, my hand grabs onto the hot towel radiator. Which happens to be _shit hot_. It sears my skin, feeling as though I am sizzling better than bacon. _This is ridiculous_.

He's watching TV again. I can hear the too-loud buzzing of fuzzy noises from the living room. His too-blonde head of hair shaking in dismay at the football scores. He can't take five paces to put a towel on the radiator for half an hour? He's been too busy to replace a towel when he's done washing up? Has he emptied the tumble drier? Life must be _just so difficult_ for the ex-heir of Malfoy Manor.

"Draco."

Malfoy hums in response, barely acknowledging my presence. To which I growl my frustration at. At the sound, he spins away from the television, butt still planted on the couch, confusion on his face. He's just going to have to deal with my wrath for now. Not my fault. My hand still fiery from the radiator, it fuels my burning hate-fire. And _then_ his eyes dare to trail over my bare legs.

"Hey, my eyes are up here!" I yell, clutching the towel tighter around my body. "The towel is wet," I say finally.

"Okay?" He still seems confused.

"Did you not think about replacing the towel after you used it?" I ask, incredulous. He scowls back. "Did you think I wanted your manky, smelly, dirty -!"

"Stop shouting at me," he bellows, standing somewhat unsteadily. Bottles clink together, and instantly I recognise the slight stench of alcohol in the air, and the clattering of glass from the cushions around him. He's been _drinking_. Again. What the heck have I come home to? I know he sees my eyes follow the sound. "It's not what it looks like."

"What is it then, scotch mist?" I accuse.

"My _God_ , you sound like my mother!"

"Why have you been drinking?"

"No, let's talk about your _bloody towel,_ " he hollers, voice thick with sarcasm. I know he's deflecting. He knows it too.

We glare at each other for a minute. It's a battle of our minds, and our powers. I have nothing right now. Not even something worth talking about. This, the drinking, is so much bigger than my towel issue. This means he's skipped out on one of those evenings again and convinced himself that he's fine to drink - that he can limit his drinks, no less. But this proves that he was wrong. Yes, it's okay to have a beer when you get home. But one beer leads to three, which leads to much worse.

"God, you're insufferable," I give in.

"And you," he finishes, "are _clearly_ on your period."

My entire body flushes with the sudden burst of anger. "What the hell is the matter with you?"

Malfoy collects the three beer bottles and shuffles slowly over to the kitchen of our small apartment. "Clearly, I'm an idiot for forgetting to put out a fresh towel for my _lady love!"_ He throws the bottles into the grey recycling bin in the far corner. I don't say a word as he moves to the fridge again, pulling out a lager this time. He doesn't bother with a glass, finally turning to me. "It's a fucking towel, Hermione. Get over it."

"Screw you."

"You already are, so what's your next plan of action? Huh?"

I don't speak. He flops back onto the couch, popping open the fizzing can.

My heart seems to be crushing itself from the inside. But I know it's wrong. This relationship, here and now, I know that I can't do it anymore. I'm not going to tell him that. I'm going to leave him with his beer until he passes out, then I'm going to leave. This is too toxic to fix.

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 **Much love. I hope you enjoyed this.**


	5. Chapter 5: Argus Filch

**House: Ravenclaw , Category: Short , Prompt: Argus Filch , WC: 1075**

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At the age of nine, Argus Filch was pushed out of a window.

One moment he had been resting his small arms against the sill, glancing out at the golden world, the sun setting behind horizon and heavy clouds. The next, hands were at his back and shoving hard. It was lucky that he fell into the thick grass down below in the back garden, instead of the paving stones out the front. Those were the thoughts that occupied his mind as shock kept the pain away. Just able to turn his head to look up, he had seen his mother staring down at him from the window. She had been the one to push him.

In a moment of frustration, Cindy Filch had overstepped that boundary that had lain between motherhood and desperation. For the past nine years, she had been waiting with bated breath for the moment her son would expel his first spurt of magic. She had imagined it in a number of ways. She had imagined that he might accidentally shatter a vase in anger, or create some sort of firework from joy, or maybe burn a hole in any of the horrible shirts that had been handed down to him from Argus' father. She had been waiting for the moment in which it would cascade out of him in a single wave. _Maybe he had been waiting for the most perfect timing_ , she had thought. But no.

In his nine years of life, Argus Filch had never expressed any sort of inclination towards magic or wizardry. He had never done anything that wasn't practically muggle. And Cindy felt like a complete failure - as a witch, and as a mother. She had raised a squib. Raised him into a squib. He had been considered for Hogwarts, but now it was an absolute impossibility.

She had expected this to be a catalyst for a bright beginning; she had expected her son to fly. Instead, Argus fell.

He tumbled from the two-storey building in the middle of the magical residency, calling out for help in the seconds it took for him to hit the ground. There was a moment in which he realised he was falling, but it was filled with fear and questioning. He didn't think of magic. He thought of dying. He thought he would surely die when he hit the ground. It was close.

When Cindy reached him, her son was very much broken. Both legs, one arm. His nose. Several toes. Numerous other things too. Mostly, it was his spirit that was damaged. Seeing his mother's face caught in surprise in the window was like falling from the same window a hundred times over in a row. It meant that she had no faith in him. She wanted him to be magical. She didn't want him the way he was.

His mother patched him up afterwards, cleared the blood, and made him some hot chocolate to calm the tears of shock. She was gentle, even though she too was in shock. _He's a squib_ , she thought. _A squib_.

Unlike his mother, Argus had not entirely thought of magic. He had siblings at Hogwarts, with blossoming ability. But he had never considered it as much of a path. He thought maybe of being a gardener, or an artist. He was only nine, of course, and he supposed those were silly dreams for a wizard to have. He was perfectly alright with not having magic in the same way the rest of his family did.

However, this sunshine view of his magical-inability did not last long.

His thoughts soon turned to the days he wouldn't spend at Hogwarts. The letter he would never get. It was as though his mother pushing him from the window was a sort of a starter pistol for every fear of failure a ten-year-old child should not have. Where would he go if he didn't have magic? Would he have to attend a muggle school? He was certainly not prejudiced against them, but his life had been geared towards magic without his childish knowledge. He had never been taught anything useful for the muggle world. Never. What did other squibs do with their lives?

On the day he turned eleven, he tried to make his hair grow by glaring at his reflection in the back of a spoon. It didn't work, and his mother watched his back in near-desperation. His siblings sent sweets and treats from Hogsmeade, with wishes that they would see him there soon. If anything, this made everything worse. He bade his parents a pleasant day and disappeared upstairs.

July fifteenth, he received a letter from Hogwarts. A letter full of regretful remarks and deepest apologies from the Headmaster. Armando Dippet was extremely sorry that Argus could not be accepted into Hogwarts at this time, and hoped to see him another time. _What rubbish_ , Argus thought. He threw the letter into the bin after tearing it into the smallest of pieces. His siblings didn't ask about the letter. Argus knew that his mother and father had engaged in hushed conversation with them once they returned from Hogwarts. Neither of them had said hardly a word to their brother. Instead, dinner times were quiet and lonely, and the house felt more isolating than ever before.

Argus felt trapped.

Three years later, his sister was graduated from Hogwarts. He wasn't certain what he was doing with his life. He spent the days gardening for his aged mother, and helping out around the small houses in the village. Mrs Kings was polite to him, in spite of his uselessness. It was difficult to remain cheerful with his sister going off to work in the Ministry, and his brother going into his sixth year, passing with flying colours in his OWLs. It was difficult to forget what a disappointment he was.

He remembered the day Albus Dumbledore was appointed Headmaster of the school he both desired and detested. Dumbledore sent him a letter to ask whether Argus would like a job at the school, to be more involved in the magical community. Argus was just the ripe age of twenty-eight when he packed the trunk and left his home in exchange for the enormous school, filled with talented witches and wizards, who were filled with magic he was unable to perform.

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	6. Chapter 6: Draco Malfoy Vs Balloons

**Round 6, the drabble for Houses Competition!**

 **Ravenclaw, drabble, balloons, WC: 403**

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Draco has been acting strange all week. Of course, him being a Malfoy totally equates to some level of strangeness. But this much? Every time I talk about buying decorations for the children and their party, he practically runs away screaming. Being a Malfoy, this equates to him simply turning and walking from a room with his arms in surrender. So today I bring home the decorations myself, taking the time to stop over at The Range on my way back from Sainsbury's. Balloons, paper plates, streamers, and an enormous plastic banner with the words 'Happy Birthday' splayed garishly several times in a row.

"Honey, I'm home!" I jokingly call through the house, setting down the bags at the front door.

"I'm upstairs," Draco replies. "The kids went over to Harry and Ginny's so we can set up." He trundles along the landing upstairs, still talking. "Molly brought over a cake, which was really nice."

"Ah, now we have two," I laugh. "I got some decorations though."

"Excellent. Let's have a look." With that, he jogs downstairs, watching his feet. In the hallway, he freezes, staring at me. "You got balloons," he says, voice indescribable. Draco takes a step backwards, holding onto the banister. I stare right back at him, completely bewildered.

"I did, will you help me bring them in –"

"No!" he shouts. "Nope, you know, I have very important things to do, and _very_ important places to be!" Draco grabs his keys from a hook on the wall, scoots around the balloons, and runs from the house without another word. I try calling after him, but he's already in the car and driving away. _What the heck was that all about?_ The balloons can't be it. That would be ridiculous, wouldn't it?

I set the party out by myself, waiting for my ridiculous husband to return home. Of course, it doesn't take long with the use of magic and far too much enjoyment. Before long, the house is adorned in decoration, and Draco is pulling into the driveway, looking marginally less harassed than he did earlier today.

"Hermione, I need to speak with you before you – Merlin's beard, the _balloons_!" Draco shrieks, halting.

"Draco, what the heck is going on with you?"

"Don't touch that!" he shouts, as I move to blow up another balloon. "I'm afraid of balloons."

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 **Thanks all!**


	7. Chapter 7: I'm Not My Brother

**Ravenclaw, Additional Prefect-y drabble, Torn out pages, WC: 261**

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Albus Dumbledore? Nope. I'm the other one, Aberforth. I'm the one you don't really hear about.

My brother is the brilliant one; the one who has every award ever given to anyone. My brother is the one who has always been the centre of the attention in our family, and certainly within school. He knows that he's brilliant as well, which is the worst part of everything. He writes in his ridiculous diary about taking some portion of the world for himself, and he writes about Grindelwald.

In yellowing pages, on torn-out parchment, and in silly muggle notebooks, he writes down every thought and faction of his mind.

 _I'm Albus Dumbledore, and I'm the most wonderful person alive_. I expect it goes something like that.

But I'm not him. I'm not my sought-after brother.

Which is why it feels freer to sometimes deviate from that despicable path my brother veers down, to not watch out for lurking teachers, or keep an eye on my potion grades. It feels freer to think about other things. To care about important stuff. For example, my sister. I care about my sister. I care about how her day is, whether she spoke to anyone, and whether she is doing okay.

I don't care whether Albus finds out that I tore the pages from his diary. I tore them from the spine of the book, and ripped them into shreds.

He tore my sister from me. Anything I do in return will never be enough.

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 **Thanks all!**


	8. Chapter 8: My Almost True Love

**Ravenclaw, Short, "This feels like goodbye.", WC: 1404**

 **AU: Disclaimer for the non-canon-compliantness.**

 **I apologise for the quality of this. Hermione and Draco, and their almost true love.**

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"You're still up," he says, walking into the lounge where the TV is silently blaring colour into the otherwise dark room. My head tilts upward to glance at his tired face. I don't move too much, exhausted enough after waiting. It feels as though I'm always waiting at the moment. Draco watches me for a few seconds, his eyes dark from tiredness and the shadow in the room. He watches a couple of seconds of the violent fighting on the movie before speaking again. "You didn't have to. You waited up every other night."

"I know," I murmur, turning back to the TV. Action movies are oddly comforting when I reach this level of tiredness - emotional or otherwise. "Are you going straight up to bed? Or do you -?" My question remains unanswered as he wipes a pale hand over his pale features. "Go to bed, Draco."

He doesn't pause, just as he hasn't every night since taking this new job. He presses a kiss to my forehead, and leaves me with my second Marvel movie of the evening. It hurts. Of course. But at least I know that he's safe. That's what I stay awake to know. If I had gone up to bed, I would lay awake and worry, and continue to listen out for the sounds of him coming home, or the sounds of the door cracking open, or the clacking sounds of his trudging footsteps on the wooden floorboards of the hallway.

When the film is over, I stumble upstairs to bed and slink in between the sheets. Draco wraps an arm around me almost unconsciously. I know he's very nearly asleep as he whispers words of love, slipping deeper into slumber. I don't have time to mutter them back to him. As usual, my sleep is halfway between restless and non-existent, tossing and turning in his too-warm embrace and the too-soft bedding that veers on uncomfortable. Stress keeps me awake most nights anyway, with the loud noises having distracted me for long enough. I feel like I don't even know Draco anymore, and yet he's in my house, in my bed, holding me in his cold arms.

In the morning, I wake up to a steaming mug of tea and a scrap of parchment.

Draco's scrawling, perfect handwriting is rushed in a short goodbye. The gesture is sweet, but it's not well-received. In fact, it makes my eyes tear-up in desperate frustration.

I work from home during the day, too exhausted to go into the office. Later, I make pasta bake for dinner (just me, again), ignoring the purple beneath my eyes. Draco is only one movie late tonight, harassed. He throws his tie onto the settee as the opening credits for Deadpool appear on the screen. I pause the television, attention geared to him.

"What's the matter?" I ask.

"Nothing," he replies shortly and disappears to make a warm drink. I shrug to myself, pressing play on the TV again. Again, the slightly over-dramatic scenes jar me into thinking more directly, while Draco batters around in the kitchen. "I'm going up to bed."

"Fine."

Instead of the usual immediate reaction, he pauses this time. He waits for a second response – one he certainly isn't going to get. I continue watching the television, on the edge and almost hoping for some kind of reaction from him. Silence. It's almost deafening. He raises one hand, as if to make a point, and lets it fall again to his side. I turn to look at him. I don't want to be the one to break first; to actually admit to a problem.

"Something wrong?" he asks.

"Just tired, Draco."

"Are you going to stay up and watch the movie?"

"Maybe. Are you going to join me?"

At a second impasse of the evening, he pauses again. It's then that I realise we're not on an even footing at all. We're barely even standing. Then he nods, and asks to sit beside me. So, I make the room for him, pushed flush against him and not sure whether I hate it. I love him, of course, but it's… I don't know. It's different. Turns out Deadpool was very much the wrong movie to watch as a couple on the rocks. It ends up being a bit too much about love to prevent me from feeling sentimental. The movie ends with me in existential crisis and Draco half-asleep.

"I can't do this," I murmur to myself, almost hoping that he hears.

"What?"

"I'm sorry," I say, sitting up straighter. "I need a break." He still looks confused, and it pushes me onwards to my next speech. "I need a break from you – from us."

"But… What?" Draco rubs his eyes to remove the tiredness from them. "Where is this coming from?" The credits start rolling on the screen. He looks surprised that the film is over. "Is this about the job? I can't do it any different. It's the way the admin is orientated, you know that."

I nod in response, murmuring, "It's just so difficult." He is silent. The lamp is a little too bright all of a sudden. "Do you know what it's like to wait up every night, just so I know that you're safe?" My throat closes up, but the next words are out. "I need a break."

"Hermione - I know a little bit what it's like," he objects, pointlessly. I shake my head. "With the war, and hoping that you were fine. Waiting for word, every night."

"It's different -"

"It's really not," Draco argues. "Where does this leave me?" he asks, rubbing a hand over his face. We're not so close anymore, and he moves even further from me, as if configuring exactly what is being said. "What... What do you want? I love you, Hermione. I want you to be happy."

"I know," I shush. "I know. And, right now, I'm not."

Draco Malfoy's face falls, nose tipped forward and eyes dropped to the floor.

"I'm sorry."

Heat flushes to my cheeks, my neck, and my eyes. They sting painfully. I don't want to cry. But here we are, having watching this ridiculously violent romance, feeling the emotions a little bit too much. He rubs a hand over his face again, struck with the power of the word. The stress has just been mounting over all of this time. It's too much. Far too much now. I don't want to hurt him.

"I can't be the only half in a relationship of two halves. I can't be the only one present, it doesn't work like that," I tell him, moving to take his hand. He just nods, swallowing hard. "I never see you. We don't speak. I'm so tired, I can hardly function."

"I could quit," he suggests.

"No. You worked for this. You worked so hard, Draco."

"But if I'm going to sacrifice you, I don't -"

"The job won't be there to come back to. I will," I reason.

We stay like this for a while, both thinking over the terrifying logistics I appear to be suggesting. He can live at his house. We won't see each other for a couple of months. So we can allow our lives to sort themselves out before we can come back to each other. We can allow things to settle before we can settle into a real life relationship. In the morning, he packs quickly, taking the floo to his house. It feels oddly bare without his stuff lying around. I guess that I forgot that this house is part-lived-in by him as well. T-shirts that went astray, parchments filled with important information, and Draco's mild personality in the intricacies of home.

"I love you," I tell him finally, as he stands in the fireplace. "This will be good for us."

"This feels like goodbye."

"It's not."

Months later, I find myself passing him on the street. There's this one moment where... But it was nothing. We just pass on the street, waiting for our moment.

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 **Thanks all!**


	9. Chapter 9: Baking Isn't So Fun Now

**Ravenclaw, Themed, Baking, WC: 528**

 **AN: This is AU, Muggledom. Non-canon compliant. All that jazz.**

 **Fred and Hermione.**

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Mum is watching The Bake-Off with me on a quiet Tuesday evening. Dad's upstairs, watching the football on the TV in the spare bedroom. I'm casually reminded that I love baking, but now I can hardly think of it without feeling that harsh tug in my chest where Fred is supposed to be.

There was this beautiful little moment last year, in mid July. The sun was setting into the sky, bathing the kitchen in this glorious golden light. He kissed me lightly and dusted flour into my bushy hair, laughing riotously. I spooned out cookie dough for the both of us, placing the rest of the baked goods onto trays in the oven. We were both coated in the white powder, hands sticky from vanilla essence, and unable to keep too many feet between each other. I was drawn to him, like the opposite end of a magnet, wanting to be near him. The memory is still like a fairy-tale, but charred with a little bit of miserable context.

The first time he came over, I made him pancakes. As usual, the first one went terribly wrong but he ate it anyway, red hair seeming to fly in surprise at the burned and crisp edges of what should have been a pancake. The second one was almost as bad, as I had felt under pressure. I had that one. However, the third, and the fourth, and the fifth - they were the ones we made together - were pretty good. We decorated them with sugar and lemon, Nutella and raspberries, and authentic maple syrup.

Pancake day became my favourite holiday very quickly.

His favourite dessert to bake was the cupcake. It had never been a firm favourite of mine, but the joy that lit up his freckled face had been enough to last me forever. Hundreds and thousands thrown haphazardly over perfect piping, drawing on words and images in tiny, thin writing.

I'm not a masochist. I don't watch The Bake-Off because it hurts; I watch it because I love baking. It's something I loved before I loved him. It's something I loved before I lost him.

Fred died. I don't like talking about it.

My mum didn't pour us wine because the alcohol makes me too emotional. My dad is upstairs because he can't handle the way I'm feeling - instead, he's focusing on his own masculinity and hiding behind football rather than admitting to any feelings. Then there's me, having lost the great and wonderful love of my life. Back in my parents house, watching The Bake-Off, and eating comfort food of chicken nuggets. I'm a little bit lost too.

It's odd. I want to bake my problems away, and just make cake, after cake, after cake. But every time I open the cookbook, or set out the ingredients, it's like my capabilities are gone. I can't focus on the baking. I can barely even focus on what's in front of me.

There's a hole in my chest, and it isn't going anywhere anytime soon.

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 **Ta.**


	10. Chapter 10: When I Would Not Listen

**Round seven, Ravenclaw, Drabble, "What would it take to make you listen to me?", WC: 316**

 **AU slightly. A possible 'what if', I think.**

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Sky draped in velvet black clouds, misty with the trailing of Death Eaters coursing through the breeze. It's nearly impossible to see any number of metres ahead in the forest, the only light coming from the glowing moon. In the dim quietness, senses are heightened. My breath is a cool cloud of white in front of me, crystallising in the air. Hands reaching for the soil ground, stretched out as we dodge the trees. Draco touches my shoulder lightly, holding me back. I pause, glaring at him.

He points ahead of him. Dark figures pass between the shadows. He presses a finger to his lips. I roll my eyes.

Three signals. _Wait here, I'll go ahead to check it out, I'll come back_.

I nod.

Draco brushes my arm in a _so long_ , crawling between the thicket towards the noises creeping up in volume. I wait, quite literally in the dark. But he's gone too long. The silence and the blackness stretches on wider and darker than before. It's suffocating, pushing in against me, constricting my airways. Suddenly, I'm moving towards the soundlessness; moving towards where Draco was lost in the pitch black of the night.

Everything is colour, noise, and the rough scent of burning. Yellow, red, and cruel orange burst before my eyes, an explosion of sense. An actual explosion. I try to protect myself, soaring behind flaming trees, and cursing at the falling of fiery branches. The heat is too much, and Draco is gone. There is nothing but fire.

"Why don't you listen to me!" he shouts from the cacophony, body singed and raw. "What would it take to make you listen to me?"

"I wanted to see if you were okay, you prick!" I yell back, shouting out at the pain of my blazing skin.

"Hermione -!"

The world burns bright white, and then black.

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 **Thanks all!**


	11. Chapter 11: Ageing Gracefully

**Ravenclaw, Round 8 of the Houses Competition. Themed, Bedtime routine, WC: 544**

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An old man stared back at him from between the cracks of the dusty mirror hanging on the wall of his bathroom door. His face was lined and pale, as if the wrinkles had been folded into his very skin, his hair a shock of chalky white. He couldn't remember his hair going from a bold ginger to pearl. Age was certainly catching up to him.

The door latch was more difficult to hold now, arthritic fingers trying to keep purchase it, the muscle spasms and tremor of his left hand trying to prevent him. Long days took it out of him more than ever, old and tired as he was. Within a few more seconds, his own wand had spelled the shop shut for good measure, and Garrick Ollivander was shuffling towards the stairs leading up to his flat. His shoes scuffed on the ancient floorboards, a too-large vest jacket leaving a chill on his blemished skin. Varicose veins on his hands more pronounced in the effort of climbing.

Fifty-seven wands had gone out today. He remembered every single one of them, in all manner of different combinations. He recalled talking animatedly to the customers, jogging from one end of the store to the next in order to trial something new. Taking out the boxes, holding out a wand, feeling the rush of euphoric power as wand met witch or wizard when a pairing was correct. That moment was when he was suddenly vivacious compared to the way he felt when the day ended. At five-twenty, the store was always empty.

At around six in the evening, he was attempting to button up a pyjama vest given to him by his wife many years earlier. The buttons slipped several times, catching on his shaking fingers. At around six-fifteen, rain began to tap and then hammer on the sheet glass windows, creating the comforting racket every British person ought to be used to.

Ollivander tapped the kettle, prompting it to whistle, then directed his attention to the lifeless fireplace. With a single and sincere waves, flames sparked into being.

Food that night was a packaged frozen pasta bake, bought by his daughter several weeks ago and kept chilled in a preposterous 'cool bag'. It was tasteless, but it was food. Coupled with the tea, he felt entirely alone. The apartment warmed pleasantly, but not enough to keep him somewhat awake. Surely this wasn't his destiny?

Lights flickered against the shadowed walls, casting dramatic shapes of darkness to drape over the hunched-over elderly man reading in the chintz armchair closest to the fire.

 _The mahogany wand possesses some of the most powerful transfiguration qualities. Due to its chemical bonding and mineral compliments, it can produce a stunning capability tending towards Gander's Fourth Law. However, researchers have more recently that when specifically imbuing the wand with such flighted beast combinations as Hippogriff feather and Occamy, it showcases an impressive tendency towards the Dark Arts..._

The words would not offer much comfort for a child hoping for a bedtime story. Yet, to Ollivander, they were greatly soothing. Soon after, he fell asleep reading, waking only in the middle of the night to brush his teeth and stumble to bed.

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 **Ta you beautiful people.**


	12. Chapter 12: A Shower or Two

**Ravenclaw, drabble, A much needed shower, WC: 558**

 **AU. Draco Malfoy's recollections of the first 100 days after the war.**

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Day one. Voldemort is dead, the Malfoy family completely disgraced. My parents try to comfort me with their suffocating arms, surrounded by people who hate me. I can't breathe, and my chest is too tight. Hermione Granger looks over at me as I let my mother touch my face, my hair, my shoulder. Her light fingers bruise my skin, her maternal gaze crushes me a little bit more. My father smiles weakly at me. Everything he does is weak. I allow the both of them to fawn over my safety for the hours as the sunlight bursts over the blood-red horizon, unmoving bodies lit grotesquely against a pale backdrop. My entire body feels dirty with death.

Day four. I can't seem to escape the feeling of being constantly grimy. The guilt sticks to my skin like dried-up oil, and the dark memories of the last few years hold onto me. Even if I'm trying to let go, everything else from the past is grasping me with several hundred hands, pulling me back towards the shadow and the blackness. Everything else is forcing me from my attempt at the clean and the light.

Day thirteen. Unlucky for some, catastrophic for me. Hermione Granger is glancing over at me again, talking about something they all call PTSS, or PTSD. Apparently, it's common in those who have participated in war. She doesn't explain what it is, but merely uses the blasted acronym, assuming I would understand. She's wrong. I don't even understand what's happening to me, let alone want to give it a damn name.

Day twenty-five. Granger calls them panic-attacks. I seem to get them a lot. I shower twice at the end of the day, feeling disgusted and horrified that she caught me in the compromising position of a snotty nose and the inability to breathe correctly.

Day forty. Still suffering. Granger is a bitch. She's trying to help. I cannot for the life of me understand why someone like her would want to help someone like me.

Day fifty-nine. The memories and the nightmares are the worst of it, to be brutally honest. Flashing images in the night-time darkness which force me awake again, sparking all sorts of fears. Nightmares which are direct reminders of the ferocious and endless violent acts Voldemort committed while I was less than ten feet from him. The snake-like eyes of an almost-man haunt me every waking and sleeping moment of every day.

Day sixty-one. Two goddamn days after my last entry. Three panic attacks. Two showers. I am horrified with myself.

Day eighty-three. Why am I doing this? Oh yeah, Granger told me to write down my feelings. I still feel like this is a horrible idea.

Day one-hundred. According to the rest of society, making one hundred days after the war is a big achievement. Then there's me. Daily panic attacks, new nightmares not failing to haunt me, and the ever-present fear that Voldemort will return again. I feel dirty. It's as though there is a perpetuating itch on my skin and it can't be removed.

There will never be enough showers for me to rid myself of the Dark Mark branded onto my arm.

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 **Ta.**


	13. Chapter 13: The Twins

**Ravenclaw, short, Pregnant with twins, WC: 1016**

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My wife is pregnant with twins. With _twins_.

She's frozen on the polyester covered chair, one hand placed over her swollen belly, the other holding tight to Percy as he attempts to crawl over her knees and reaches for her earlobes. Gently, she holds our son closer, staring straight ahead. Percy mumbles and gurgles incoherently, wanting the adoring attention his mother usually gives. All I can do is smile at her, because I physically cannot stop myself.

"Healer, are you - Percy, stop it," Molly admonishes, interrupting herself. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," Healer Johnson replies, clasping his meaty hands together in spite of the chaos of the room. He smiles then and bids us goodbye, telling us to book an appointment at the desk for a check-up in a couple of weeks. Molly doesn't move. Not when I stand up, Charlie having pulled me from my seat. Not when Bill asks his mother a question. Not when Percy sneezes.

"Molly dear?" I ask, prompting some movement. Her eyes move to me, then her face breaks out into a glorious smile.

"Twins, Arthur. Twins!"

The street outside seems much cleaner and the world much friendlier. Well, as friendly as a world can be when dealing with the most powerful Dark Wizard threatening national take over. If I can still feel this exuberant and joyful with He Who Must Not Be Named roaming around, then I don't know what. With my wife hollering beside me, "No wonder I'm as big as a house!", there is surely nothing better in the world. Charlie holding my hand unembarrassedly, Bill walking confidently but watchfully ahead. I am led to ponder what these next two will be like. Will they still have the same bright, red hair? The polite disposition? The intelligent and determined look in their eyes?

Our next couple of days pass delightfully slowly, Bill's seventh birthday going off without a hitch, even with some of the family popping over for a very short while. Charlie's birthday and Christmas quickly approaching with the beginnings of December. Molly handles everything spectacularly. I work the long hours, providing as much as I can for my growing family, but desperately wanting to be at home with them all.

"Here, Molly let me," I say as she leans towards a crying Percy, my eyes catching Charlie outside playing with something caught in the grass. I try not to alert my wife, placing the baby into her arms and wandering casually out into the garden. Bill watches me from the doorway, curious. "What have you got there, son?"

"Bowtruckle," Charlie says simply, not looking up.

Known to be vicious if disturbed, usually inhabiting wand trees, the bowtruckle is naturally something to be avoided. Yet, here my four-year-old son is greeting it like an old friend. As he's seen this many times before. Maybe he has, but not to my knowledge. It's a revelation halfway between terrifying and astounding, but most definitely wonderful.

" _Arrrhhhhhhhhhh!"_

"Molly?" I shout, quickly picking up little Charlie and spinning back to the house, fear filling my heart. Charlie screams, Bill stares at me. Within seconds, my wand is out and I'm ready to fight off anyone who will dare to attack my family. "Bill! Now!" I usher my son inside with me, torn between picking him up as well.

" _Artthuuuuuuuuuuuuuur_!" Molly screams from the chair, clutching at her belly in terror. "I can't be in labour already!"

"Labour?" I ask, deflating. Not Death Eaters. "Just labour. _Labour?"_ My mind clicks in gear. "Molly, you're only four months along. We have to get to St. Mungos!"

Without pause for argument, between the screaming Charlie, Molly's blabbering denials, Bill's stoic solemnity and Percy's confusion as he writhes in Molly's arms, we hasten to the car.

Later that day, Healer Johnson explains that there can be complications with twins. The womb is stretched more than normal, meaning it can be very painful. With such lively babies, there may also a higher proportion of kicks and aches and pains than usual. Molly takes it all in her stride. She holds onto Bill's hand, who is holding onto Charlie, while Percy is asleep for once.

Our months pass in a hectic fashion. Much more hectic than they have been before. Molly is at home with the kids all day, occasionally helped out by all-too-willing (and suffocating) family members. I stay out at work only as long as we can afford, coming home to the most wonderful chaos. My ridiculously heavily pregnant wife, four months, five months, six months along. We pass through Charlie's birthday, Christmas, and race through my own in early February. It feels as though we are in our own version of a race against time. Percy still cries during some nights, meaning I get hardly any sleep with making sure he is okay. Bill has started having nightmares. Charlie seems to be making friends with new beasts every day. The only things that don't seem to like him are gnomes. Then again, they don't like anything or anyone.

"Arthur, the twins are on their way," Molly says to me on the morning of April first, nineteen-seventy-eight.

"Funny dear," I murmur back, yawning widely.

She sits up suddenly, cracking her back in the process. "I'm not kidding."

"Is this another false alarm?"

"My waters just broke."

" _They're a month early_."

April the first, nineteen-seventy-eight. Arguably, one of the more stressful days in my life. Our twins, unexpected at first, but loved so much. Born within three hours, having had complications down the road. I wait in the reception by myself, the children back at home with my own mother. When Healer Johnson emerges from the room that was previously filled with screaming, I don't know how to feel. Relieved that there must be news, but terrified all the same.

"Your wife did wonderfully. Would you like to meet your two new sons?"

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 **Thanks for reading!**


	14. Chapter 14: Falling

**Ravenclaw, Prefect additional short, He reached out. His hand grasping for her... , WC: 1039**

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They were running again.

Time moved slowly, as if they were escaping a monster in a dream.

Her frizzy brunette ponytail whipped around as she ran, following her partner through the dim moonlight, curving around the explosions that manifested from the ashes themselves. The fire burned the air around them, searing marks onto their already-charred skin. Draco led a path through the trees, partially to confuse the enemy Death Eaters that seemed to be permanently on their tail, and partly to assess the damage surrounding them. Hermione kept her wand out, occasionally firing backwards to ensure a little more safety. Behind them, the bangs and crashes sounded as curses hurled themselves into trees, causing them to fall unceremoniously.

Draco's legs were burning from running for so long. Adrenaline wasn't about to fail him, but it didn't mean that he didn't feel the inkling of pain that would come. Every part of his body ached. Physically and mentally, he was slowly falling to his knees. Now that he was part of the rebellion, he had a little more to fight for. He'd been mulling it over for months, letting the thoughts breathe one into the next, over what was the right thing to do. How to implement it. One day he had woken up and done that right thing for once in his life. And he had kept doing it. Over and over again.

Hermione, on the other hand, had always been good. Draco knew that she had always been on the right side. Somehow, they worked exceptionally well together.

They didn't need to talk as they ran because they already knew the drill. Get to the rendezvous point with the Horcrux. Somewhere along the way back, Death Eaters had just been there. There wasn't time to Apparate to an agreed-upon place. They just ran.

 _"We can't lead them there, Draco_!" Hermione shouted to him over the tumultuous din as another tree exploded into flames beside her.

" _I know!"_ he shouted back, glancing over his shoulder to check on her for the seventh time since they had begun running. If she was okay, then he was okay. " _We have to get back somehow, though! We can't stop and let them get it!"_

 _"I know, I know!"_

 _"I have an idea, but you just have to trust me!"_

His voice was almost completely drowned out by a flurry of curses bulleting the forest floor ahead. Hermione sidestepped them easily, legs pounding against the ground, escaping by mere inches. She shot jinxes backwards again, not pausing to relish in the shrieks of a Death Eater who was caught in it.

 _"You know I trust you!"_ she answered Draco, accelerating to keep up with him again.

" _Steer clear, okay?"_

Hermione winced as a Stinging Hex hit her ankle, not wholly paying attention to Draco. He assumed that she had heard and was running sideways instead of into the chaos he was about to create. He was wrong. He assumed that she was okay, and that she was safe from the spell. He took a moment to glance around and ferociously point his wand to the soil.

" _TERRA BOMBARDA!"_

Behind him, the ground dissolved then was thrown into the air, white-hot dirt expanding in a burning soil-cloud as the earth itself exploded in a single crack. Several thousand fathoms deep and expanding as though the ground was splitting itself. In seconds, the hole swallowed fifteen Death Eaters, leaving only one or two of the slowest ones shouting in surprise. Hermione was running towards him. But then, suddenly, the darkness was at her heels too. It chased her as she sprinted for him, stowing her wand away. Terrified, he ran for her. She couldn't fall. She just couldn't.

Draco forgot what he was and where he was. He forgot that he was on a mission and holding the Horcrux. He forgot the wand in his hand. It was too dangerous to attempt magic on something so vital. She was falling. The expanding crack caught one of her feel, then her leg.

He reached out. His hand grasping for her wrist, desperate.

" _Hermione!"_ he shouted, his voice cracking in the newfound silence. Instead of shattering skies, and cracking spells, and vicious shouts, there was only white noise surrounding him. The crack didn't swallow him as he held onto her. She was so tiny and frail. " _Don't let go!"_

" _Draco, I_ –"

" _No, I can't lose you_ ," he interrupted, reaching for her other arm to pull her out. " _Come on, grab hold of me."_

A Stinging Hex to the hand was all it took to send her tumbling down into the depths below away from him. It was well-aimed. He flinched, the sharp and searing pain causing him to let go. It was a purposefully stupid spell. Oddly, not meant to kill him. He fumbled, reaching for her, flat on his stomach from his mistake. His shout was barely loud enough against the din. She was falling into the chasm that he had created.

Draco lay there for longer than he should have, crying out from the pain. It pulsated outwards from his stomach and his heart outwards. It was slowly eating him inside, preventing his speech and halting the feeling in his limbs. He felt paralysed.

 _Move_ , he told himself. _You have to get back._

The world wasn't exploding anymore, but he was certain that he might implode at a moment's notice. He was on his feet without really knowing how, numbly running through the thicket of forest, taking liberty to walk through some of it.

Draco reached the rendezvous point, pushing against the knot of the tree and entering the seemingly empty cave.

They were both there. Ron Weasley and Harry Potter. Waiting for him, and waiting for their best friend. Instead of determining the location of the Horcrux, it was Weasley who asked, "Where's Hermione?" glancing behind Draco to make sure it wasn't a mistake he had made due to the darkness.

Draco merely shook his head, unable to speak. His throat closed up and he absolutely certain he wanted to die.

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 **Ta all.**


	15. Chapter 15: Midnight Stroll

**Ravenclaw, drabble, Mysterious noise, WC: 403**

 **AU, for definite.**

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An elderly couple shuffled down the stony path through the graveyard, slippers catching on the ground as they walked. The woman drew her jacket tighter, arms covered in goosebumps from the whispering susurrous of the breathing wind. Leaves churned in the breeze, fluttering down slowly, as if caught in time. Solitary, they moved towards the soil below. Jean Givings watched the colours fold into the darkness, caught in the blades of silvery moonlight, loosely grasping her husband's hand. It was cold to the touch from the air of the night. Their breath misted and crystallised in front of them.

Even after sixty-three years of marriage, Jean still felt that twinge of love and nervousness holding his hand. She felt as blissfully in love, as though they were still fifteen years of age. Harrold smiled back at her, his wisps of grey hair fluttering in the breeze. Around them, the hollows of trees whistled tunelessly throughout the graveyard.

Chettenham Church was one of their favourite haunts, in both youth and old age, having taken their evening stroll through there every day since they had moved to the village sixty years previously. The history of it had interested her, while the mystics had intrigued him.

A noise disturbed the pair, unlike anything either of them had heard before. A pounding; a heartbeat emanating from the darkness and shadows themselves. The pair of them stared into the black surroundings, searching for the source of the mysterious noise. Jean pursed her thin lips, frowning. It was old folklore that spirits of the place were significantly more active on Halloween night, and certainly would be in the graveyard.

Scratching, pounding, scraping, pulsating noises persisted. Maybe Jean had thought there was shouting, as evidence to the haunting. Nevertheless, the couple had already moved on.

As they continued into the dark, they missed the patch of churned, fresh soil. They walked right past the place where Draco Malfoy lay, six feet beneath the ground, nailed inside a coffin, desperately shouting and banging against the wood, slowly suffocating.

He wasn't completely certain as to how it had happened. Chloroform maybe. Perhaps he had been knocked out by a punch, waking as they nailed him inside, forcing him back against the wooden background.

He'd been buried alive.

And now he would just be a mysterious noise in the dead night air, until he succumbed to an everlasting sleep.

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 **Ta.**


	16. Chapter 16: A Friend in Me

**Ravenclaw, themed, Hogsmeade, WC: 1125**

 **AU, but not massively.**

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Amber liquid rest, hardly touched, in the grimy glass standing on the counter of the Hog's Head Inn. Ron's pale fingers brushed it, not really thinking about the drinking, but trying to pretend that he was tired in the hope that it would work and trick himself into believing it. He felt as though he hadn't slept for weeks - and that was probably true. Troubled by a lack of something within him. Hermione was long gone, seeing someone else. Harry was married to his sister, Ginny. Ron had been unable to complete the Auror programme, opting out in the final throes to help George with the store - not that it brought him any joy.

He wasn't in the right line of work to meet someone special, he supposed. He supposed that he should let it go. Yet, every night he ventured out to Hogsmeade, where the brothers were preparing a second store, drinking at a pub where no one knew him, until he thought he was numb. The truth was that the numbness didn't exist. Not even a little bit. There wasn't love in his life like there used to be.

Let Fred go. Let Hermione go. Let Harry go. Let the people he loved go and move on with his life, fighting crime, taking names. Ron's heart wasn't in it because his heart wasn't invested in anything. Despite his most common compliment being of his loyalty, there was nothing anymore. There wasn't anything to be excited about.

Sometimes Ron would lay awake at night on the sofa in the Hogsmeade store, sweat droplets dousing his forehead, panic forcing its way into his mind and his uncomfortable body coiling itself into something that might bring some relief. He'd tried counting sheep, like Hermione had suggested so many times. That never worked.

"I'm closing up," Aberforth muttered to Ron as he mindlessly scrubbed another grubby tankard. Ron took the hint, downed his biting drink for good measure - Firewhiskey was meant to provide some sort of feeling, whether warmth or just a shock - but getting nothing from it. He left money on the counter, not uttering a word to the empty pub as he braved the outside.

Mid-Winter, he reckoned, was no one's favourite time of year. Weather was miserable; cold, wet, and far too much snow up in Scotland. The whiteness of the scene seemed just as bleak and meaningless as the rest of his life. So close to Christmas, one might expect there to be shoppers casting their eyes into golden-lit windows. Such was not the case post-war. Hogsmeade was slowly falling into some sort of disrepair, funded almost exclusively by villagers and the seasonal attendance of Hogwarts students.

Tonight was no different. Lamps guided the shadowed route from the Hog's Head Inn down the small street towards the shop, as Ron touched the keys in his jacket pocket. And yet, there was something more than shadows moving in the distance. A short figure, closer and closer, its own path cast into the deep snow. Blearily, Ron looked towards it, trying to figure out what it was.

A dog. Not a small one either. Golden in colour, from what Ron could tell of the dark. A brown muzzle, patches of white snow stuck to its fur. Unwillingly, it made him smile. Such a strange sight was somewhat comforting in such ridiculously blank times. A dog, wandering over to him in the middle of the night, clearly come from some sort of adventure in the snow. But it probably had an owner somewhere out in the cold who was looking for him. Instead of waiting for the owner to turn up, Ron walked on towards the shop, his skin cold.

The dog followed him, jogging along beside him, paws patting down the snow next to Ron's own footsteps.

"Sorry buddy," Ron said as he opened the door to the shop, shuffling inside and leaving the dog in the cold. Of course he felt awful about it, the dog scratching at the door as Ron stumbled up the stairs for once, falling on top of the dusty sheets, blessedly exhausted.

Next morning, the dog was there when he left for the store in London. It was still there when he returned. On the second night, he let it inside to have something warm to eat. Maybe it wasn't the best thing for a dog, but the snowfall had persisted through the day meaning it must have been frozen outside. Ron stayed in that night, the dog at his side, warmer and more comforting than a Firewhiskey had been in years.

When Saturday came around, he put up photos and knocked on doors to find the owner. No such luck. The dog followed him to each house, sitting down while Ron spoke, staring up at him and panting in spite of the cold.

"What am I supposed to do?" he asked the dog, stepping away from the seventh 'no' of the day. "I can't keep you."

And yet, the dog followed him back home, acting more like his own pet than ever. Ron figured that it was comforting, even if he hadn't asked for it. They wandered past children playing in the closest corners of their gardens, too afraid to go too far out; past elderly witches clucking about their husbands; and past middle-aged couples reliving their childhoods in building snowmen. The world certainly seemed a little brighter than usual.

That night, Ron stepped outside into the cold air alone again. But he couldn't face going back to the Hog's Head Inn for some reason. He thought that maybe his tiredness was just catching up to him, but in all honesty he just didn't feel like spending the money on a drink that would do him no good thing at any stage in time. The drink didn't help him to feel numb, and it certainly didn't help his liver. It was only ever a bad habit acquired from what he thought was the correct response to a messy situation.

He returned home, because that silly dog had already changed him for someone a little bit better. And there was no one else right now. As much as Ron had been caring for it, it had been caring for him.

So, when Ron Weasley clicked open the locks to the shop, jogged upstairs, opened the door to the flat, and let the Labrador fuss over him, there was only one thought that was really occupying his mind.

"You need a name," he said to the dog, fluffing his pet's ears warmly.

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	17. Chapter 17: Enochlophobia

**Ravenclaw, short, Enochlophobia, WC: 971**

 **Slightly AU, Draco and Astoria.**

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London. The absolute worst place to be in if you're a sufferer of the lesser-known Enochlophobia.

Having the fear of crowds in Europe's most crowded city is ridiculous, I know. And I was the one who booked this idiotic vacation day here. Taking time out from work to go and see the sights a little more - having never been especially interested beforehand. Usually, I catch the floo to the Ministry in the morning, avoiding all of the people. Then I'm in my office before too many other people arrive, hardly seeing anyone throughout the day. I can skip out on social interaction all day if I'm really careful about it. So why I thought this was a good idea is completely beyond me.

Muggles slamming into me from every direction, their heavy shopping bags a threat to my very existence. Idiotic tourists hoarding around for the perfect photograph, clamouring and shrieking like bloody harpies. Bodies enclosing around me, forcing my path a certain direction. Causing my skin to crawl as my eyes squint through the coloured macs towards something other than the crowds; something resembling calm.

My chest constricting, I push my way past a map-gazing family and a couple taking a self in front of the local bank.

I don't know what street I'm on, but at this point it really doesn't matter anymore. I can feel the panic rising like bile to my throat. Elbows knock into my sides, the bleary light from the sun glaring into my eyes admonishingly. Maybe this horrible experience is my punishment.

I wasn't always like this. When I was younger, I didn't especially like a lot of people - one of those stupid things living in a massive mansion. There was hardly anyone around, living in such a big place. New people made me nervous. Hard to believe, I know. I was forced into social engagements at parties, finding that I was bitter and cruel towards others. Not pleasant. I grew into that version of myself, believing that it was the way I just was supposed to be.

Then there was that pesky Wizarding War. The world appeared to collapse around me. Social constructs about class completely gone, ideas of power ruined, the Dark Lord who had oppressed my family for what felt like generations was dead – and for certain this time. I didn't have friends. Harry Potter saved my life. It was an embarrassing and shame-filled day for many reasons besides just those. In the sunlit moments after the war was over, the battle forces went to the Great Hall, seeking out the dead and families. The shock hit me more than anything, as my mother's hand brushed the grit from my hair. I felt as though I was suffocating, dying, over and over. I didn't want her touch. I didn't want her kind words. I didn't want the looks I received from every pair of eyes that cautioned in my direction. A sheer force of panic overtook me in such a rushing, gentle way that I was even more confused. In the Great Hall, I slowly panicked my way into solitude.

And now I'm here. Pushed and pulled like a piece of stringy bread as people around me force me to live out the worst feeling in the world. That feeling that makes me wonder how many showers I'm going to need, how many times I'll scrub my hands in order to just be able to breathe fully and completely. Stumbling blindly through the maze of bodies –

"Oomf!" I shout out as a short, stout man shoves his way practically through my left side, storming on ahead into the group of German tourists being led by a tall man in a bright green cap. _Crap, oh crap indeed_.

The gravelly road hits my face, several people trampling over me in their haste to ignore me. Great. Just bloody great. I try to shuffle out of the way of the conveyer belt of people, glaring out the man who knocked me down.

"Oh goodness, are you alright?" a woman's voice bursts through the din.

"Fine – oh…"

Breath and sense leave my body all at once.

"Come on, let me help you up," the woman says, offering her small hand to me. I take it without really thinking, my stomach churning from nervousness. She's stunningly beautiful. Kind-faced, smiling, with eyes of clearest blue. People skirt around us, glancing backwards. Probably just admiring the magic here, the sparks flying between us.

"You're amazing, thank you." The words slip out before I can control a response. Not that I could have said something better. The brightest grin breaks out over her face, and the crowds around us seem to dissipate a little bit more. Just like that, I'm smiling a little bit too. I let go of her hand, all too aware of how sweaty mine are becoming. "I'm Draco," I introduce myself.

"Draco Malfoy?" she asks. _Oh, good Merlin. This cannot be happening._ "Did we go to Hogwarts together?"

"Sorry?"

Too shocked to register Hogwarts and my response (yet again, idiot), I blurt the first thing in my head.

"You don't know Hogwarts. Oh, goodness me," she laughs lightly.

"No! No, I do!" I say, throwing my hands out as she reaches for her pocket, which I know would contain a wand. "Hogwarts, yes. I was just surprised. Most people think of my parents before they think of me."

"I wouldn't want to be defined that way, so I won't define others in the same way," the woman answers pragmatically. I let out a shaky laugh, relieved. _Who is this woman?_ "I'm Astoria. Astoria Greengrass."

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	18. Chapter 18: What About For Cake?

**Ravenclaw, Prefect additional short, "Cake is not a valid excuse", WC: 1055**

 **AU, for sure.**

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 _We're engaged!_

The text lights up the screen on my phone, glaring out at me. Two conflicting feelings fill me at once. The first, a positive feeling of joy because Harry and Ginny are the most wonderful couple I've met. And, of course, a little bit of envy. Draco and I have been together, and stronger together, for eight years now. A long enough time to warrant a marriage proposal, you might think. Obviously not.

"Have you seen, Harry and Ginny are engaged?" Draco calls through to the bedroom, toothbrush in his mouth and phone in one hand. He scratches at his t-shirt covered chest with the corner of the phone, grinning broadly. I smile back at him, albeit a little weakly. He spits out the toothpaste into the sink, wiping his mouth with the towel. "That's great news!"

"Yeah," I smile. "Been a long-time-coming, I think." I draw the duvet closer to my chin, already feeling the cool air getting to me through the gaps. Maybe I should put socks on. He smiles back, turning off the bathroom light and flopping into bed beside me, briefly reaching across me for the remote control on the TV I idiotically installed in the bedroom. Draco flicks through the channels, eventually finding a re-run of Britain's Got Talent from a couple of nights ago. "Have you ever thought about getting married?"

Draco hums in response, watching the elderly man trundle on the stage with his trunk hauled along behind him. The man makes a joke, causing Draco to chuckle. I settle deeper into the pillows, glancing over at him briefly before picking up my book in somewhat defeat.

"Subtle," Draco murmurs, laughing again as the man pulls off his corduroy jacket to reveal a lilac bathing suit. "I mean, I guess I've thought about it. Why?"

"Just curious," I mutter back, almost smiling. It's not as though he's enthused about it. We've not really spoken about it before, so why would he have thought about marrying me? That would be ridiculous of me to ask him of that. "I just wondered whether you'd considered it. We've been together a while." I take a sip of my tea, throwing caution to the wind. "I've thought about it."

"We don't have a reason to get married," Draco says simply, sitting up in bed, not looking in my direction. Completely oblivious to the fact that he just stopped my heart. The lights in the room flicker, testament to my panic and annoyance.

"Are you joking?"

"You're not pregnant, are you?" he asks insolently. I scowl instantly, shaking my head. _This is ridiculous_. "I didn't think so. What's the issue then?" Draco asks this as if I'm some sort of crazy person, wanting to marry the man I love. Surely not?

"The _issue_ is that I thought you might actually want to marry me," I laugh bitterly, getting out of bed and deciding that I can't sit here any longer otherwise there is going to be arguing. And I'd much rather watch more television alone, get tired, and fall asleep on the sofa than have such an awful discussion with him. Behind me, he's spluttering, setting down his tea and pausing the TV. _Love is awful,_ I scowl. "But we don't have a reason to marry, apparently. What the heck does that mean anyway?"

I wrap the nearest dressing gown around me for that extra comfort – whether it's his or mine, I take no notice.

"I didn't mean anything by it, Hermione," he says slowly.

"Why did you say it then?" My goddamn voice betrays me, cracking on the inflection of the question. "Sorry."

Draco rearranges himself between the sheets, sitting upright, hand tugging at his hair. He tries again, saying "because we don't need to get married. I love you, and that's lovely and everything –" at this, I huff loudly, shaking my head in disbelief. "But that's not a reason to get married."

"How is it not?" I wrap the dressing gown tighter around me, heart pounding. "You know what, it doesn't matter."

"It clearly does, Hermione."

We stay like this for what seems like several long minutes. Me, standing beside the bed, chewing on the corner of my dressing gown, uncertain of where to go from here. Him, sitting upright in bed, his t-shirt crumpled from laying down. The lights flickering uncomfortable on the bedside tables, waiting with bated breath. Outside, rain begins to tap lightly against the window, as if asking for entrance into the room. Draco stands up to close the curtains, not quite bursting the bubble of tension in the room. The problem is, I know it's my turn to talk, but I have nothing to say.

"I want to marry you," I say, timidly. "Do you not want to marry me?"

Draco runs a hand through his hair again, seeming to deflate.

"My parents always taught me that marriage has to have a purpose. For gain, or for power, or something else," he begins. "I don't want that. I don't want this to be about gain."

"What about cake," I suggest. "Cake is an excuse." Draco laughs humourlessly.

"Cake is not a valid excuse," he answers, smiling sadly.

"But we could have a lot of really great cake and spend the day with everyone we love. Celebrating love, and most importantly, cake." I swallow thickly, folding my arms in an attempt to feel a little stronger inside. He's smiling, so that's positive. I feel like I'm dying. "Cake is good."

"I love you so much," Draco murmurs, reaching out to me. "So much."

"But that's not enough for you to want to spend the rest of your life with me?"

Burning tears threaten to spill over onto my cheeks. He doesn't respond, but instead reaches into his pyjama pocket. My chest tight, breath frozen, I watch as he pulls out the tiny black box and shrugs, shaking. His face is somewhere between terrified and elated. I'm torn, halfway between hating him and loving him all at once.

"I mean," he starts. "Why would I not?"

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	19. Chapter 19: A Cold Dinner

**Ravenclaw, drabble, dinner party, WC: 811**

 **In a Muggledom world. AU.**

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"Sorry, why are we going again?" I ask, pinning another curl to the side of my head as Draco switches on the razor in the bathroom. He spends a few seconds sorting through the settings, then switching it off again. He pauses in the doorway, thinking.

"Because you love my family," he answers finally, going back to the mirror to inspect his light stubble. I roll my eyes. "Or at least because you love me?"

"I do love you," I say, resignedly. Draco curves the razor over his cheeks, pulling silly faces at me through the open door. One of the many stupid reasons as to why I love him. Then he stops, satisfied, and smiles at me.

"Great," he murmurs, moving out of the bathroom towards me. Draco places a light kiss on my cheek, his eyes reflecting the pale-yellow light emanating from the lamp on the vanity. He really is beautiful. "Nearly ready?"

"Says he without the tie or shirt," I mutter, glancing down at him. He steps away, laughing light-heartedly.

"That will take me all of two seconds."

Ten minutes later, he's zipping me into the ridiculously heavy black, velvet dress. I'm half worried the top half of me will fall out of my dress, but it doesn't seem so realistic with the dress on. In fact, it feels comfortable. Only the daunting evening draws my spirit down now as we haul ourselves into the awaiting taxi. Half a second feels to have passed before we arrive at the Manor. Draco opens the door for me, as if I was determined to stay inside the car and journey back to our home alone (which I definitely would have done, if I hadn't already promised that I wouldn't do that exact thing).

We step out into the chilly air, me wrapping my arms and thin shawl closer to me, trying to accumulate a little more warmth. It's a fruitless attempt. Draco takes my right arm, leading me towards the glowing doorway, uttering warm, comforting words to me. As though they make a difference. I still feel the blanket of cold rush over me, fear and trepidation.

However, once we reach the grand doorway, the light doesn't seem so frightening. Instead of a pale, deathly glow, it's almost orange in colour. An enormous contrast to the rest of the home, I know. The light reflects off the dark walls and the peeling wallpaper. You'd think rich people might want to keep their home modernised and friendlier. Apparently not.

"Miss, may I take your shawl?" asks a small brunette standing in the doorway, holding a flannel over his suit jacket for some peculiar reason. I'm too stunned to even formulate some kind of response.

"Thank you, Harvey," Draco responds kindly, slipping the material from my shoulders and leaving me far too exposed for comfort. I suppose that I should feel as though I've left half of my clothes behind. Draco takes hold of my arm again then, as I'm gazing around the wide expansive hall, too formal an occasion for hand-holding.

He leads me into the dining hall, and it feels as though my eyes have been thrown into some sort of whirlwind, churning in my mind. The hall is enormous, decorated lavishly with silver and dark wood. Ornate figures are carved into the doorways, etched into the fibre of the room.

"Hermione dear," a voice echoes from the expanse, setting a different sort of chill over my skin. "We are so glad that you're here. We can get started on dinner now. Lucius, please sit. It's just us tonight."

Narcissa Malfoy stands at the other end of the room, dressed in a dark green satin dress. She smiles, and it feels as though my heart stops. She hates me. And a very real fear enters my body whenever she looks in my direction.

We sit at the table, Draco pulling out the chair for me, and Lucius sitting opposite me, with Narcissa opposite her son. It's odd. I've never known the Malfoys to not hold an elaborate party when naming it 'Dinner party'. This seems suspicious.

"I thought we might as well get started right away," Narcissa continues, as if nothing had happened between her introduction and us taking out seats at the table. She glances in her husband's direction, as if he ought to share a private look between the two of them. Draco reaches for my cold hand beneath the table, but it doesn't begin to help. The only thing I imagine will be my saving grace is the food tonight. In the cold air of winter surrounding us, the warmth of food and wine will hopefully bring something good to the table.

I can only hope.

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	20. Chapter 20: Take Me to Church

**Ravenclaw, Themed (goodbye), Take Me to Church (song prompt), WC: 658**

 **Definitely AU, or at least not canon-compliant. In a world where Draco and Hermione are together, and there has been enough time following the war for the group of people to bond and spend time together.**

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The snow settles thinly on the ground as we begin the short pilgrimage from the house to the small church in the village. Pale yellow lights reflect back at me, the roads slick with wet from the rain, and the snow, and the damp evening air. I turn to glance in Hermione's direction, as she leads the group of us up ahead. I would have liked to have been up there with her, but it's truly not my place. Harry Potter is dead, and I cannot be selfish for her love while she is grieving. She would only ask that why am I, a bad person, still living when Potter is dead.

It is somewhat an unspeakable truth in our home that I'm a disappointment to society. Having lived off the Dark Lord's means in the war, unable to bring around any change in the Manor, I am an outcast. Not one by trial, however. My name was cleared by Harry Potter. The Great and Good Harry Potter. Defeated by a Toyota Yaris in the middle of a supposedly abandoned London street. Not even magic can bring back victims killed on impact.

And here we are. The funeral march pounding inside our own heads, determined to ignore the cold on the outside, and focus on the expanding chill on our insides. Hermione is devastated. Even more than ever, I can feel them talking about me; sense their disapproval of me. It's something we don't talk about. The fresh poison each week, curses sent in the mail, and malicious looks I receive from the general public. Even muggles, stumbling through the street, seem to glare in my direction. Hermione beside me, holding my hand, smiling unconsciously into the terrifying open waters of life.

She'd be the metaphorical giggle at a funeral. A burning, bright light, thrust into my darkness. My sunlight.

I have thought about dying. Several times over. Thought about venturing into Diagon Alley, announcing my sins and letting the world sharpen their knife. Maybe that's the way to repent, to let them fight their way through me, hurt me, and to let the world have their turn at taking me apart.

The church is larger than I expected. Filled with that same yellow light that emanates from the street lamps outside, and just as cold as the night air. We close the doors behind us, black robes trailing along the floor atop muggle clothing, carving lines through the dust.

Hermione says she wasn't brought up religious, although I don't completely understand the sentiment either way. A figure up above who judges all and loves all, depending on which way you read it. The Dark Lord sounded like the prophet to me. He promised things, and performed magical tasks, and made people believe certain things. But unlike the Dark Lord, the prophet promised good things, and performed wonderful miracles – although both came back from the dead, only to disappear or die again. Although Harry Potter also did not believe in God, or any other omnipotent benevolent creature, we are in here. In God's House, as they say.

Maybe the expanse of space is oppressing because it holds meaning for so many people, or maybe it feels this way because Harry Potter is dead. I shouldn't still be here if he is gone. It makes no sense. I wonder whether others feel that too, that their lives are worth less and certainly should have ended before the Chosen One's did.

I stand at the back of the group as the casket is brought in through the side of the church, carried by able volunteers. They set it down at the altar, and the man at the front of the hall begins to speak.

Not having had to say this kind of goodbye before, it's more difficult than I had first anticipated. My eyes sting, and my chest aches, and Hermione holds onto Ron up ahead of me.

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	21. Chapter 21: Rose's Working Space

**Chaser 1 for the Falmouth Falcons, Round 12 QLFC, Prompt: Employee-Employer relationship/Rose Weasley and Scorpius Malfoy. WC: 912**

 **Additional prompts: (dialogue) "I've forgotten what it's like to feel young.", (phrase) A man is known by the company he keeps, (object) blouse**

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 **Ravenclaw, Round 10 Houses Competition, Short, Prompt: Duelling, WC: 912**

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"I swear to Merlin, Malfoy, I will kick your tiny jalapenos off that desk if you do not move them yourself," I threaten, glaring at Scorpius. He stares blankly back at me, and I know there is going to have to be a more serious condemnation if he's going to adhere to any rules I might have in my office. "Then, I will shove them up your -"

"Rose!" he shouts in protest, cutting across me and grinning. "Language. What would your mother say?"

"Something a lot worse than arse," I mutter, certain. Scorpius scowls at me, returning to the adjustment of the ridiculous blue necktie he has adorned to his forehead. "You're lucky your report isn't due soon, otherwise I'd have a few things to mention to you - and professionally."

"Oooh, Miss Weasley! You made me feel like a student again," he laughs. "I've forgotten what it's like to feel young."

"You're twenty-five."

He doesn't say a word, even though I know he must be just quietly thinking in his corner of the room. Even though I'm his boss, I feel like I can haze him a little too if he's being annoying. Perhaps because I've known him for so long, or perhaps because he annoys me so frequently. Thus, I flick my wand almost lazily towards the plastic bowl of jalapenos. In seconds, they are flying towards Scorpius' pale, gormless face. I don't look or smile as each one pounds against his cheeks. Mainly because I am his employer, but also because I know that if I even smile, I would end rolling on the flood in crazed, shrieking laughter. Like some sort of absurd, crying hyena.

And apparently that would be a foul sight to behold. Especially in front of someone who believes that 'a man is known by the company he keeps'.

I understand that it's all to do with appearances. Essentially, it's a fancy way of saying 'we are all judged constantly by who we are, what we look like, and who we are with'. A charming sentiment akin to the Malfoy's, and most other pureblood families who live that way of life.

"You know, you do have a desk of your own," I murmur, flicking over a page of my notes and still bored of what's written on them. "You don't have to nick the spare one in here."

Scorpius is wiping his face with a napkin he pulled out of the third drawer down in the desk. Once his face is clean, he turns back to look at me, still grinning.

"Nah. I like it in here too much."

With that, he grabs the bumf of discarded papers beside him and throws them into the air. Appalled, I watch on as he jabs his wand at them, causing each sheet to tear into tiny pieces, flaring red and orange and gold. The embers fall to the floor of the office, shrivelling up and disappearing before my eyes.

"Am I in trouble?"

I roll my eyes in some sort of pointless response. While it is frustrating, he hasn't done anything wrong. I would have put the papers in a different fire, three days down the line, after waiting to see whether they might be of use (and they never are). And, technically, I am getting work done. In fact, I'm maybe more productive having someone else in the office. Even if they cause a certain amount of trouble and annoyance in this relatively small room.

Then again, it's not as though we're partners, He doesn't need to be in here. Scorpius is my subordinate, and it certainly makes doing boss things more difficult. Like firing Jeanette last week. He wouldn't leave the room. That was troublesome, and I'm still worried she's going to file some sort of complaint about me. It was grossly inappropriate for Scorpius to refuse to leave.

Ever since we were kids and he was friends with Albus, he's always just been there. It's like he's family, but not quite.

Scorpius uses a levitating charm to bring his coffee closer to him across the desk. It scrapes noisily, making my ear drums feel as though they're about to burst. Even lazier, he uses the same charm to attempt in lifting the coffee to his awaiting lips. However, in the last two seconds, as I watch on, horrified, he moves to furiously itch his nose, causing his wand arm to fly out left. The boiling liquid burns itself onto my skin and my brand new blouse.

"Rose, I'm -"

"You utter MONGWEASEL!" I shout. "You are in such trouble."

"Saucy," he comments.

"That's it. You, with me, now," I instruct.

"Where are we going?" Scorpius asks as I'm yanking him up from his chair and dragging him unceremoniously across the room. We're out of the door in seconds. I don't care about his appearances at This moment. People stare as we haul our way to the rec, past the canteen, and the Magical Maintenance office. I push the doors open with a bang, Scorpius protesting wildly. "Rose, what's - oh no!"

I step back from him, wand raised.

"Alright. We're going to duel for it," I say, only slightly out of breath. "If you can hit me, you can stay."

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	22. Chapter 22: The Family Give Thanks

**Ravenclaw, Prefect additional short, Thanksgiving, WC: 976**

 **AU. A Muggledom fic.**

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"Draco dear, it is wonderful to see you," my mother coos, bringing him in for a suffocating hug, dressed in a floral apron and jaunty, turkey-shaped hat. "You're a bit peaky, definitely time to get some food in you. Hermione, come on inside and close the door," she adds, poking up her head from Draco's shoulder. I step inside, a little too close to the pair of them, quietly shutting the door behind me. It slams with a sudden gust of wind.

The hallway is filled with a rush of warm scents that remind me almost instantly of Christmas. Like a pre-Christmas. I hug my mother lightly, drawn further into the house by the central heating and smell of roasting turkey with cranberry sauce, mincemeat, pies, carrots, broccoli. If only Shakin' Stevens would come on the radio now, I would accept the early arrival of December 25th.

"Your father is in the living room, Hermione," my mother says, smiling sweetly. "To the kitchen!" Then she spins on the spot and turns to the room behind her, evidently going back to her cooking. I glance at Draco momentarily, knowing that he's off to assist her. It doesn't help in my detachment of the day, even when he presses a kiss to my lips and squeezes my hand gently. He shouts a jovial 'gobble-gobble' to my mother on his way to putting on a second floral apron. I can't help but scowl.

My father is sitting in his favourite crumbling chair when I enter the living room, reading the newspaper with careful, bespectacled eyes. He blends a little less into the neutral tones of the room, instead having opted for some purple and yellow jumper and bright red corduroy trousers. I grin wholeheartedly, genuinely happy to see him.

"Alright Dad?" I ask, announcing myself and plonking down on the sofa beside his Sherlock chair. He looks up quickly, as if surprised I'm even there. For a second, it's as though he doesn't quite recognise me, but then he puts down his paper and grins just as wide as me. He pulls his spectacles from his nose. "Anything good in the news?"

"Depends what you think of as good," he chuckles. "I'm glad you're here. You mother was driving me potty!" I laugh. My mother giggles loudly from the kitchen, causing me to roll my eyes.

"He was very pleased to help," I tell my father, settling deeper into the heavy cushioning of the sofa.

"Your mother has been obsessed with doing a thanksgiving dinner since we came back from Connecticut last December," he muses in return, picking up the hidden mug of tea from the table at his side. I nod, remembering her returning from the trip and jabbering about how it was like Christmas, but with so much more food, and so many different tastes and flavours.

"Draco's been excited ever since she mentioned it."

"Well, pumpkin, you know I can't cook," my father laughs, then coughs.

"And I'm no wizard in the kitchen," I say, albeit a little anxious that his chest infection hasn't been cured yet. However, we descend into chatter and laughter, discussing the little and large things in life that have occurred since we last spoke, and everything in between.

Just an hour and a half later, we are sitting down to the old table I grew up with, each placing bowls of vegetables, and tarts, and the smorgasbord of meats, sauces, pies, and fruits. I pour out glasses of red wine, grinning at Draco and squeezing his hand. Together, we raise our glasses and clink together, smiling jovially in each other's directions.

"This looks amazing, Mum," I say, scooping up a spoonful of potatoes.

"Hermione!" she shrieks, slapping my hand. I retreat quickly, scowling at her in spite of myself. "We need to say what we are thankful for."

"Why don't you start, Mum," I reply, seething just a little inside and trying to avoid my own annoyance at my mother. She raises an eyebrow.

"Alright." She pauses dramatically, then stands. "I am thankful for my beautiful daughter, Hermione, and her wonderful partner, Draco. You are an asset to this family, and I love you both." Half wondering whether she's talking more about me or Draco, I settle down for the next few uncomfortable sentences. "I'm thankful someone will finally cook with me. God knows the pair of you are useless," she laughs. "And yes, I'm thankful that I'm no longer menstruating."

"Sarah!" my father protests. "We're at the dinner table."

"I'm still thankful," she says, sitting down. She glares at my father, prompting him next. He stands with difficulty.

"I am thankful that my heart, my mind, nor the rest of me, hasn't given up yet."

He sits again.

"Dad..." I start, glancing over him. His face is red for even standing a little too long, eyes unfocused. But he shakes his head at me. I stand. "Fine. I am thankful for stupid cat videos, a good job and a nice home, and I am thankful for Draco Malfoy." I sit, already too hungry and angry to consider my words.

"I love you," Draco murmurs, grinning broadly at me. Then he stands. "I am thankful for a lot of things. It used to be having a home filled with powerful people, but now it's just having a life that's filled with goodness." Hardly unprompted, my face grows hot. "I'm extremely thankful that I can find myself in such a wonderful family. And Hermione. I'm thankful to have a Hermione Granger in my life."

The rest of the evening is delightfully warm and genuine. Funny, I felt much better after those words.

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	23. Chapter 23: Durmstrang Institute

**QLFC, Falcons, Round 13 - WC: 1055**

 **Chaser 1: A timid character going into battle, Other prompts: Strategy, Royalty, Durmstrang**

 **Hannah Abbot joining the rebels in an attempt to take down a faction of the Death Eaters. AU.**

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Victor Krum leads us past the tingling magical barrier and onto the grounds of his old school. Instantly, I am aware of why the students were so cold towards us all those years ago. While Hogwarts was always filled with light and life, Durmstrang Institute appears to be the polar opposite. Still cold, but thick white snow covers the ground leading up to the castle, dirtied with a darkening sky up above. The trees are dead, leaves long gone for many years it seems. No light comes from within the building. It's almost as though it was abandoned decades before.

Shadows curl around us through the thicket. My stomach churns unpleasantly. I'm surrounded by Wizarding Royalty, and I don't necessarily mean purebloods. Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasley. Members of the Order of the Phoenix. I may have been in Dumbledore's Army, but this is my first mission as part of the Order. A timid Hufflepuff, struggling through words of strategy, vaguely considering holding onto Neville a little tighter for support. He's handling this fine, however. He doesn't need me. But I'm not sure I can breathe just yet. Perhaps it's the crystalline air, or perhaps it's nerves.

Voices murmur behind me, like the thrum of my heartbeat. The burn of the blood in my veins, humming as it passes around my body. I feel somewhere between dizzyingly light and heavy enough to drag my body through the core of the planet. I'm not important however. My feelings aren't considered. Only Neville wraps his fingers briefly around mine for comfort, not even looking sideways to see whether I've thrown up yet.

I wish I believed in me as much as he does.

None of us really know exactly where the others will be waiting, the Death Eaters. Draco Malfoy is several steps to the left of me, theorising with the Golden Trio. Sometimes I'm more fearful of him being so close than us being close to the Death Eaters. Sometimes I feel as though he is a parasite sent from the Dark to infect and mislead and dissuade. So far, he has been helpful, and I would never say a thing against him to the others. He's a different kind of Wizarding Royalty.

Even as the night draws closer, no lights are lit in the expansive castle before us. It makes me miss home at Hogwarts more than ever: The warm fires, huddling in comfortable chairs, the scent of parchment burning, and common room games filling the life there with more joy than a chocolate factory. It's cold here. Cold to the bone, my skin feeling as though it's peeling itself away from the blood vessels. Nitrogen spilling and flooding through my capillaries.

We wait just beyond the barrier for the moon to rise, glowing, against the dark, starlit sky.

As it reaches its summit, we begin to move. First as a unit, before branching off into squadrons of have to infiltrate the castle, take them by surprise hopefully. Try not to let them out into the open and keep the battle contained. That's the strategy we're going with. Get them isolated, separate them, attack.

I follow Neville and Draco Malfoy along the treacherous path, already missing the comfort of the dark forest.

"Hannah, are you alright?" Neville asks from beside me, his arm momentarily hanging in the air as if to brush his fingers over my own. But the pause is evident and maybe he either does not consider it prudent or would just rather not right now. I nod, gesturing for him to continue along our path. Hermione Granger casts the third muffliato charm of the evening, to be certain, and we move along, our footsteps gradually disappearing with spells drawn over the ground. The snow melts and grows anew, as though a growth filling the void.

My group and I stand a little taller, putting confidence in the thrum of magic around us. I'm not so certain it is working, but equally I see no signs of disturbance in the castle up ahead. I move with them; Neville, Draco Malfoy, and a few others I don't recognise. Malfoy catches eyes with Hermione, almost in reassurance, before moving away from her to take Durmstrang at the left bank.

Barely a second is passing as we struggle through the snow, clothes dampening then heating, silent, lonely. My heart pounds louder than an alarm and I'm sure it will alert those inside the castle. But still nothing. I am afraid. Perhaps not afraid of death, but afraid of disappointing my friends and fellow rebels. Afraid of not following the strategy and getting something wrong to the cost of all those whom I love.

We reach the east doors. Malfoy makes a sign to Neville, who responds with a similar movement. I have no idea what's going on, which leads me to conclude that Neville is definitely too good for me, in spite of me loving him. Together, we perform the magic that allows us into the castle without detection – supposedly.

Lights glare at us upon entry and the world turns scarlet red with stunning spells. We're too quick, deflecting easily. The darkness was a ruse, they had been waiting for us all of this time. Why did we bother to be slow? These thoughts occupy my head as I propel myself into battle; fingers a little too numb to fight my best, and mind a little too behind and too insecure to consider whether I am doing the right thing. The strategy is dead, and perhaps we will all be dead by the end of this. We did not consider their strategy to be waiting for us.

Spell after spell, curse following each curse, more deflections than I have ever performed. Cloaked figures seem to burst from every orifice of the castle walls, seeming to manifest from the dust and the mist itself. I can't see Neville or the others. I'm almost too busy to notice those falling around me. I'm too determined to not disappoint to consider the morals or the fears I had of battles previously.

As my comrades fall around me, I feel the sharp sting of -

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	24. Chapter 24: A Matter of Importance

**Houses Competition Y2, Head of House, Ravenclaw, Drabble, Prompt: "Nothing can be that important", WC: 410**

 **Finally, back to writing! I hope you all enjoy this little one, with plenty more to come!**

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"Granger, what are you doing?" the drawling voice of Draco Malfoy disrupts my moment, his supercilious walk indicating that he's clearly followed me from somewhere on his laughable destructive path of doom. I scowl in spite of myself, tears burning their vicious tracks down my cheeks, furious that he's caught me unawares like this. I wipe my nose noisily, trying to hide the fact that my voice is cracked and my heart is pounding like a freight train and I'm seconds from crawling miserably into the nearest person's lap. Which would be him. Ew. "Granger, why - oh." His tone drops flat.

"Go away," I utter, embarrassed. He's stood there like an idiot, frozen as if someone has petrified him. For a moment, I'm convinced they have. I even check. But no, he's clearly just waiting for an opportunity to make a comment, leave me more distraught, and find Pansy to laugh it off.

"Why are you crying?" he asks, swallowing thickly. For once, Malfoy looks completely awkward.

"Please, don't bother with asking." I cough, a frog stuck in my throat and the build up of snot getting to me at last. It dribbles. Gross. "I know you don't care."

"Granger... Uh, Hermione." I raise an eyebrow. "Yeah, it felt weird for me too." Malfoy laughs awkwardly. _What the hell is going on_. "Look. Whatever it is, it's not important. Whatever it is - whether it's grades, the ginger one, or Potter - that's making you upset. Nothing can be that important."

"Says the man who cares about nothing."

The words are out before I can stop them, and yet he doesn't look annoyed. He doesn't look particularly understanding either, his face lit with the burning candlelight, a glorious orange across his sharp features. Some things are important enough to cry over, and I know that. Maybe Draco doesn't get it in the same way. But there are things that are worth the fight, and the aggravation, and the miserable, ridiculous, embarrassing tears.

"Touché," Draco says, smirking. "But there are some things I care about."

My tears abated, waiting, he adjusts his tie almost self-consciously. Then, he frowns, and leans close, wiping away a tear. As if we were caught in a movie.

I'm embarrassed and angry, but also perhaps a little awed.

"Trust me Granger, he's not worth it."

And Draco Malfoy walks away.

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	25. Chapter 25: The Laptop

**Houses Competition piece about Hermione and her evening with new best bud himself, Draco Malfoy. Definitively AU.**

 **HC Y2, HoH, Ravenclaw, Themed (friendship), Prompt: Laptop, WC: 2335**

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The door bangs open just as I'm reaching my third hour scrolling through Facebook. I glance up in mild surprise, my eyes shifting back down to the glowing screen of the laptop as I realise it's only Draco. Stupid, annoying Draco Malfoy who barges into my apartment sporadically and angrily. Draco Malfoy who looked as though he should have just stalked across my living room and smashed several priceless vases into tiny pieces. Instead, he's staring at me. Confused, perhaps.

"Granger," he greets slowly, perplexed. "What on earth is that on your lap? Your face is glowing."

"It's a computer, Malfoy," I murmur in response, sifting through old photos and coming across one of me and Ron, two years ago. Ron stares out at me from the screen, his blue eyes lit up from the camera flash and dimples even more pronounced. I glare back at him and the me that stands beside him - happy, slimmer, and so much in love with the redhead next to me. Now I'm caught between wondering whether I should or shouldn't have loved Ron. Whether I even did.

"What in Merlin's name is a computer?" Malfoy opens cupboards, searching for something as he talks. Eventually, he pulls out the biscuit barrel and a beer, coming to sit on the adjacent chair. I'm not quite certain how annoyed I am at him for barging in yet, but I'm sure I'll figure it out in a minute or two. "It looks like a pensive. I can see Ron. That's an old picture of you two... You look..."

"Better," I mutter.

"Different," Malfoy counters. I scowl. "Are you going to tell me about this idiotic muggle contraption or not?"

I click through a couple more photos before responding. "Sure." Then I self-consciously look down at the screen again, seeing the photo of Ron and me at the Potter-Weasley wedding three years ago. It was taken in this really beautiful moment where we were dancing, and the light was good, and our bodies and minds were inundated with alcohol of the smooth, golden kind, and love felt like it really could be real... "A computer processes information. Like someone that reads a book - they take in the information and do something useful with it."

"What are you using it for now?"

"Where are you supposed to be?"

"Doesn't matter." Malfoy pops open the beer and leans close, staring at the laptop. "Tell me. Facebook. What's that?"

"It's social media," I explain, already brimming with frustration. Explaining anything to do with muggle computers and that sort of thing always confuses Malfoy. How could he possibly understand why people use Facebook? Why would he bother? It's like trying to explain quantum mechanics to a grandfather who still doesn't know how to turn his mobile on.

"Like the Prophet? But on a screen instead of paper?" he asks, mouth full of biscuit. Crumbs fall from his lips and all over his shirt, jacket, and trousers. I scowl again, feeling like a mother taking care of a very idiotic baby. "Why is it on a screen? And why is Ron in the news?"

"It's not a news channel, Malfoy - at least, not in the same way as the Prophet," I start, sighing and shuffling back in my seat, knowing that this could be a long conversation during which I would obviously prefer to eat ice cream, drink wine, and wonder why Ron didn't love me in that _true love is magical_ way. "It's a way of sharing news with people you love. Like when you do something good sometime and want to tell family members or friends."

"So it's a way to show off?" Malfoy gets up again, looking anxious and harried. But then he pauses, as if caught between two parallel conversations in his head. "You're not a show-off, Granger."

"It's not like that," I argue, laughing incredulously. "I want to know about their lives, so share things about my own. It's also like keeping a diary - a virtual imprint of what you life is and was."

"A _what?"_

"Why do you have to be so... Oblivious?" I ask, flicking through the next couple of photos, hoping for another bout of nostalgia to wash over me. Instead, I find a photo of the Golden Trio, in our golden days. A photo my mother took of the three of us, having returned from war a little more damaged than we had expected to be. And the wave of feelings isn't gentle, but it's crashing and aggressive. It brings back the memories of the day, and the realisation that I couldn't even begin to explain to my parents what we had been through.

"Why do you have to be so... _Muggle?"_ Malfoy asks, scowling back at me. "Also, that is such an old photo. Why are you even looking at it?"

"Wasn't that long ago."

My mind disappears for a few moments into the chaos that filled those days.

"So. Virtual imprint. What's that?" Draco interrupts my somewhat profound thoughts once again, sipping on his beer and seeming to get comfortable. It's a wonder he survives at all without even a muggle knocking him over the head with something - whether it be a hammer or a book, either would do the trick.

"It's like a mark - a massive finger print - that goes onto the internet," I respond. Maybe talking about inane things is much better than looking at old, loving photos of my ex and the life I could have had. "It's like you putting up a red flag and the database knowing it's you."

"Hermione, I swear to Merlin if you don't start talking English -"

"Alright!" I shout, my tether breaking in one fell swoop. "Merlin. Alright. The internet. It's like Hogwarts. People everywhere. Someone says something there, it immediately gets spread about and people can find out it's from you. Like the rumour about you and Pansy in the fifth floor broom cupboard - it started somewhere, travelled all over."

"Or the rumour that Ron was cheating on you with... Who was it?"

"Lavender," I snap. Then calmer, "Bloody Lavender Brown."

And there she is. In the photo, dancing with Ron at the Potter-Weasley wedding, laughing in a ridiculously beautiful way, balancing drinks for her and Ron in one hand, and the wine for me in the other. Lavender Brown. In the background, or so I thought.

"You know, she's really not that pretty," Draco comments. I slap him on the arm. "Hey!"

"Don't be mean," I sigh.

"Glass of wine?" he asks. I nod. He knows me too well.

There's a light clinking of glasses in the background as Draco reaches for the large ones at the back of the cupboard and pulls out two - because God knows he'll always pour himself one as well. Two bottles are pulled out and set in the decanter, something my parents bought me for my twenty-first birthday two years ago. A few days after Ron decided to tell me he didn't want me anymore. That had caused quite a few issues within the friendship group. Although, a friendship group that oddly included Draco Malfoy and Ron Weasley within two metres of each other would always be explosive.

"Why is the laptop making you cry?"

Draco's voice shocks me again, all too close to me and my bubble of ridiculous misery.

"What?"

"You're crying," he says. "Is it the light? Because it's pretty bright." I laugh in response, shaking my head. It's not the light. It's the memories of the photos that fill the screen before me. Memories of the explosive, uncomfortable end to a long relationship and a very long friendship. "Is it the picture?"

"It's stupid, I know," I murmur. "Just a picture. But it was when..."

"I know." Malfoy stops me before I can utter another word. He hands me the glass of red wine and sits on the adjacent chair to me. There's this odd, understanding look in his eyes that I've never quite picked up on before. "I know."

"Stupid laptop, stupid Ron," I mutter darkly. "Why couldn't he have been just a bit nicer?"

We sit in silence for what feels like hours, days, years. But Draco is drinking the wine that he prepared, watching me closely, and I'm still staring at that damning screen in front of me. The last remnants of my ridiculous relationship on show for myself and the whole world to see. What is it with the need to post everything online? Having this innate need to make sure you are remembered. But I don't want to remember this part of my life. Frankly, staring at it now, I hate it. Stupid Ron.

Halfway through the third decade of our silence, Draco gets up to get more wine for the both of us, and brings ice cream for which I'm thankful. Then he starts speaking, though I'm only half listening and half paying attention to the buzzing white noise between my ears.

"Ron was an idiot," he says. Not especially comforting. "But the thing about idiots is that they help us see the smart ones in our lives. Without them, we'd follow the mediocre and the dull." He falters. "No, that's stupid. Your life wouldn't have been boring without Ron. Merlin, what am I saying?"

"I think the wine got to you, Malfoy," I laugh, turning to face him. "You're a good friend."

"I'm the worst," he replies, smirking.

Looking at him then, I notice something I hadn't before. Maybe in my slightly preposterous wine-fuelled stupor it's more obvious and it's always been there. But I notice a little bit of light behind his eyes. Back when we were at Hogwarts, there was definite darkness and trouble with him. But now... Now there's something else there too. A goodness. Amongst sharp features and pale skin. Somewhere, in the cold and cynical mind of Draco Malfoy, there is a brightness that eclipses even himself.

"What are you looking at?" he asks.

"Nothing," I smile in return. Then I close the lid of the laptop, stowing it away under the chair. "You know, you really are wonderful." Unconsciously, I settle back, comfortable in his presence. He smiles, almost politely, and nods a thank you. Obviously knowing I'm about to spew more rubbish from my lips. "You've been there for me for a while now. From the war. Through the stuff with my parents. When Ron was being... An idiot." _And that is putting it lightly_. "You're wonderfully, fantastically, faithfully everpresent."

"Well thank you... I think," he laughs. His laughter is a little bit of warmth. Maybe it's the red wine.

"I really mean it, Draco."

"First name basis are we?"

" _Dracoooooooooo!"_ I shout in response, howling the name like a mating call. Malfoy throws his arms over his head, screaming about the noise, leaving me laughing even harder. "And I am _not_ drunk!"

"You so are," he shouts, accusing me with a pointed finger. " _You_ are absolutely out of it!"

"Drunk on life, perhaps."

The years, and the weeks, and the minutes blur into seconds. They collide at once. The room spins around me a little, but the warmth of the red wine and central heating keeps me steady as Draco says the next words.

"I'm glad you're happier."

They bring me to a crashing halt. They remind me of what I was, just a few hours ago. Poring over photos of an ex-boyfriend who ruined my wellbeing. Ignoring my friends for fear that they hated me too. When Ron broke up with me he said some awful things to follow on from a stream of awful things he'd said to me over the last ten years of our friendship and terrible relationship. That I could never be loved. That I could never be someone he would love. That I never had been. He told me that I was damaged and broken and confirmed every fear I had ever had. That I was dull and too studious and that my dead-end job proved my life was going nowhere.

And on this ridiculous evening I decided to delve into the old photos and bring up everything that ever was in that relationship. Analyse where I might have gone wrong to end up here. Because how the heck did it happen? How the heck did I go from being at the top of my game - friends, a boyfriend, a job that had fantastic prospects - to pushing paper for the Leaky Cauldron and drinking wine with Draco Malfoy in an apartment I don't technically own. Glory days well and truly over.

"Hermione?"

"Hmm?" I respond vaguely, slowly coming back from my mind. Then I remember. "What was your day like? You seemed annoyed."

"Usual stuff, you know," he laughs, a little nervously. I glare back at him. "Went through some Bulgarian legislation - Merlin knows why they let me do that - and came across a few issues with other members of departments. As usual."

"Who was it this time?"

"Just a bespectacled idiot and his ginger mongweasel." Then he grins. "Don't worry, they're dealt with."

From that point on, the evening is much improved. I don't fall back into the pattern of overthinking and analysing every word, but instead hear about and discuss the agreements the Ministry is trying to put through with Bulgaria. Malfoy and I debate the benefits and consequences of the merging departments. We order in Takeaway and eat on the floor, watching old favourites and new binges until early next morning.

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	26. Chapter 26: Sound of Rain

**Houses Competition Y2, Ravenclaw, Head of House, Short, Prompt: Rainstorm, WC: 871**

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"Daddy! A storm!"

Amelia's voice drifts back to us from the few skips she is ahead of us, pointing up at the deep purple sky. Draco and I pause, glancing up at it in worry. He releases my hand and runs towards our daughter, the idea of danger immediately sparking the fearful parent in him. As the sky rolls over with thunder, he picks up Amelia, her white blond hair flipping around in a halo in his haste.

Our afternoon walk turned into dash back to the house, Draco jogs ahead with Amelia, disregarding the brolly I offer him. I'm left behind, pulling the plastic hood of my walking jacket over my head. He's talking to her, something about saving her from the rain. I'm not sure I can deal with his insanities right now, but here we are. Running away from the thunderstorm like there are Death Eaters on our tails.

"Hermione, should we draw the curtains or something?" he asks me, voice laced with panic as we haul through the front door, not even slightly damp from the non-existent rain. And yet, Draco looks as though the end of the world has come, holding onto an intrigued and smiling Amelia. "Is there enough food to last us? I know we've got cans of tomatoes, but I don't know how many. And Amelia doesn't even like tomatoes - that will be a problem, won't it?"

"Jeez Louise!" I shout, laughing and stripping off my jacket. "Calm down Daddy Bear. It's a rainstorm, Draco."

He ignores me and shuffles into the house further, removing his jacket after he has set Amelia down by the cooker. What on earth is going on with him? I mean, sure the noise isn't exactly pleasant, and neither is the bright flash of lightning that strikes the sky with powerful vengeance. But it's also beautiful. Blossoming, bulging, billowing clouds. Streaks of blue lining the purple and black backdrop as the rain hurtles down.

"Amelia," he calls through to her. "Grab your blanket and your pillows from upstairs and bring them down. As many as you can."

I wait a few seconds for him to tidy away, wipe his blonde hair from his eyes, before pouncing.

"What is going on with you?" I demand, albeit quietly because arguing is the worst thing parents can do. "One minute you're relaxed, and the next second it's as though the world has gone into meltdown and Voldemort is back in -"

" _Don't say his name_ ," Draco hisses, his teeth gritted. "I just... It reminds me of him."

"What, his name? Don't be ridiculous."

"The _rain_ , Hermione." I pause, confused at his words. The rain? Why would the rain remind him of the darkest and most powerful wizard of our time? "That night it all went down - before the Death Eaters got to the castle - we were in The Lake District, somewhere on a sloping mountain. The rain was churning above us and it looked like it was going to throw us into a wormhole, or suck us into oblivion. That's how it felt too." Draco falters, glancing behind me at the stairs. Amelia stands there, covered in blankets and balancing pillows in each of her arms. I turn around to face her.

"Sweetheart, why don't you leave those there and bring some more for mummy and daddy?"

She smiles as if this is going to be the best evening in the whole wide and mysterious world. Watching her ankles disappearing around the corner of the staircase again, Draco begins to speak.

"There was thunder too. The Dark Lord did this hokum spell that made it sound ten thousand times worse. He tortured those who looked less than pleased. He threatened those who were prepared to die for him, even though he had no need. In one glance, he could make you feel as though the world was being torn in half." Draco coughs, moving away from the counter to fetch a glass of water. I twitch towards him, wanting to comfort him. "The rain and the thunder and the skies... They trigger that. It makes my left arm itch, if you know what I mean."

"I'm sorry," I utter in a breath.

"Not your fault," he counters, smiling as though the world was intended to be bittersweet.

"I could tell you what my parents used to do when there was a rainstorm?" I suggest. "Blankets, movies, stay up until it's over or throughout the night. We'd have treats and sweets." He nods in response. "Draco, not every memory of a bad thing has to be bad. And I'm not saying you should forget the bad things, but just create new good associations. I know the thought of _him_ isn't going away, maybe ever, but we can at least hope to distract you for an evening. With food, family, and love."

"That does sound... Good," he answers, beginning to have that glimmer back in his eyes.

Slowly, lightly, I press a kiss to the corner of his lips, just as the pattering of little feet announces our daughter's return.

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	27. Chapter 27: Galleons and Knuts

**Houses Comp Year 2, Round 2**

 **Ravenclaw, HoH, Short, Prompt: He looked down at what was left of their money - fifteen galleons and twenty-five knuts., WC: 681**

 **AU, Ron fell in love with Lavender.**

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He looked down at what was left of their money - fifteen galleons and twenty-five knuts.

"Daddy! Daddy!" Arabella called to her father, leaping up at the front of the store and making eyes at the teddy bear that stared at her from the window display. It was soft, Ron could tell even from a distance. But, it was also expensive. That much he knew. He had seen Harry and Ginny's children with that sort of bear, and they were at liberty to spend money on their children. Yet, Ronald Weasley could hardly afford to pay the rent. And he wouldn't accept any sort of charity. "Daddy, look at it!"

"Coming, pumpkin," Ron replied, jogging lightly towards his daughter. He figured he must look like a complete idiot, one leg limping ever so slightly from a worn-out war injury, and his face still scarred from the thoughts that had literally wrapped themselves around his head. There were other parents around, staring at his slightly ragged jeans and sweater combination. He was no Remus Lupin, but he knew he didn't compare to other families who had two incomes. He only had what he could earn from the shop, when he wasn't looking after his daughter.

"Daddy, it's so soft. It's sort of like the ones the others have!" The others meaning his sister and best friend's children. "Can we go in and have a look, please?"

He could never refuse her eyes. They were exactly like Lavender's. Light brown, soft, unchallenging. And her hair, a shocking ginger much like his. She was different from the blonde and brunette children in the crowd, and he wouldn't have it any other way. Except, for now, she was giving him that look. The look that got her anything he could afford - which was not a lot.

"A look, only," he gave in.

Arabella rushed into the store, her small seven-year-old hands pushing the wooden door below glass panes. Resigned, Ron followed her inside, able to keep an eye on her easily, what with her flaming curly hair and glowing disposition. Within seconds, she had discovered the shop attendant, asking about the bear in the window. Ron noticed the man's disdain immediately - resting behind his eyes was that same look he got from most people. Judgement. About how his daughter was dressed in a handmade sundress, dirtied at the hem. That Ron's shoes were peeling away at the floor. The way in which the two of them held themselves.

"Did Sir want to buy the bear for his daughter?" the attendant asked, smiling politely, knowing they didn't have enough money to pay. Before he could even ask how much it was, the other man was telling him the price. "It's thirty galleons."

Ron let out a heavy breath, a hand glued to his hair in disappointment.

"That much?" he asked, half-whispering so his daughter wouldn't hear. Even after her mother had been gone four years, he would only ever protect her from the truth of their financial situation. "Could it be knocked down at all?"

"Unfortunately," the attendant began, "That is the fixed price."

"Dad..."

Her voice was quiet and soft, but he heard it anyway.

"Daddy, it doesn't matter." She was walking in his direction, tiny hands twisting in her dress. "I have other dolls."

"I know honey, but..." His words died in his throat as his daughter clasped her hand in his for comfort. Her eyes were wide, staring up at him. The attendant was scowling, but that didn't matter. Voice cracking, he managed, "I'm sorry." Then leant down, face to face with the small girl who was so similar to him, and so painfully similar to her mother, who he had loved so very much.

"I know you're sad, Daddy," Arabella whispered, as though it were a secret. "You don't have to hide it."

Ron smiled sadly. She was so much smarter than he had anticipated. "I'm okay. I just miss her."

"Me too."

Together, they left the shop and returned to the modest flat above Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, greeting George as they passed.

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	28. Chapter 28: Glasses

**Yet another piece for Houses Comp - AU, as always my dears. In this piece, I wanted to demonstrate the hilarity that every glasses-wearer experiences, the "ohmygod you wear glasses what", and the required explanation that follows.**

 **Head of House for Ravenclaw, Drabble, Prompt: Glasses, WC: 355, AU**

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"Granger, what in Merlin's name are those horrifying things on your face?" Malfoy asks, my office door banging open as he enters unceremoniously, laughing. I roll my eyes, not bothering to turn in his direction. Today is not my day, which means he's going to be taking the piss for every single moment of it. "You look utterly ludicrous."

"Thank you for your kind words, Draco, but I really am not in the mood to deal with you today," I warned, not looking up from my mountains of paperwork. "They're glasses. They correct your vision if you have bad eyesight. I ran out of contacts - which are like tiny lenses you can put on your eyes."

Malfoy walks further into the room, seeming to examine my face in detail. "I'm not an imbecile Granger, I know what glasses are. Making fun of Potter's was a regular pastime of mine. But you've never worn them before." He peers closer and taps against the glass in front of my eyes, humming to himself in wonderment. "Did you damage your eyes overnight? You look odd now."

"You look odd all the time," I mutter, crossing through another line of the work. Some people I work with really have no idea how to file a report, so I am stuck reading through their shoddy lines of writing, making sure they're suitable. It's mad, honestly, given that I do actually have my own job to do, as well as doing theirs.

"You're wrong and you know it. I look like a Greek god."

I glance at him over my glasses and squint. Everything is blurry, but I just about make out his pose - like the Thinker.

"Hmm..." I murmur, almost closing my eyes. "Maybe like this."

"Rude."

Draco looks offended for a moment, as if I have somehow damaged his insanely huge ego. But then he laughs, sitting down on the edge of my desk and picking up half the papers on my desk to go through them on his own. I can practically feel him smiling as we settle into our daily routine.

I know, because I'm smiling too.

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	29. Chapter 29: Is It Magic?

**Houses Comp piece. AU, at your delightful service. Many thanks to my amazing fellow writers in Ravenclaw. I love you all.**

 **Ravenclaw, Head of House, Drabble (Additional), Prompt: Accidental Magic, WC: 489**

 **AU, Obscurial Harry.**

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Just as every day of Harry Potter's quiet and miserable life thus far, he woke up in the dark cupboard, a spider shivering in front of his eyes, and one hand caught in a web. It didn't bother him anymore. Not the ruthless banging against the door as Dudley passed him, kicking it hard. Not the shrieking shout from his aunt and uncle, demanding him to be awake two hours too early.

Harry raised his head slowly, pounding tiredness brutally harsh in the light as he switched it on. Aunt Petunia banged on the latch of the cupboard. A flash of annoyance sparked within him as his head throbbed painfully. He heard her gasp from the other side of the door and pulled on overlarge jeans with a shirt to match. Something of Dudley's, whose clothes had always been ridiculously large for the smaller boy who received them. Dudley had disregarded this particular pair of jeans after spilling hot chocolate on the knees, and the shirt was just something he fundamentally disliked.

"Dudley turn that idiotic thing off, right this second!" howled Uncle Vernon from the living room, from which his son was blasting the show Charmed. Harry knew it was because of the magic. Vernon Dursley was an empirical man and had never appreciated anything that was remotely unrealistic. Dreams of flashing lights, flying motorbikes, and magic were strictly forbidden. For the mention of a ghost, Harry had been without supper for an entire week.

Unspeakable things had been done and said to Harry for the little things that seemed to happen around him - things he couldn't explain for the life of him. How the ugly geometric sweater had shrunk every time it was almost forced onto him; how his hair had grown from shaven to messy again overnight; how he had jumped and reached the roof of the school building.

And he was terrified. What would the Dursley's do if they found out or realised what this was? They'd send him away, or burn him alive. Harry was sure of it. As sure as he was that it was magic.

On that particular day, it was bad. He'd reached for a cup, and it had leaped towards his outstretched hands. Glass slamming into him, scraping across the worktop. No one had noticed though. He had wished Dudley to shut up, who had then experienced a coughing fit. Out of breath, wheezing, Dudley had been unable to utter a word. Anxiety seemed to be pouring out of Harry. Contain it, he told himself.

Like many before him, it was too late. The roots had sunk themselves into him. The pressure to not perform accidental magic was too large, and it suddenly seemed to be bursting out of every orifice. Black, thick, and smoke-like. He was no longer a boy, or even human, but a magical entity that was tearing through Privet Drive and the streets adjacent to it.

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	30. Chapter 30: Condemn Me In Marriage

**Houses Comp - AU piece about Hermione marrying Draco for his money. Of course.**

 **Ravenclaw, HoH - piece written for Year 6, Themed, Prompt: Condemn, WC: 2043**

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"Miss Granger. Mr Malfoy. I now pronounce you man and wife."

The Minister clapped his flabby hands together, sweat flew in our direction, and the proverbial weight fell onto my shoulders. Married. Heck. What the heck have I done? I look at the man standing across from me, his pale blonde hair swept back tidily, and his face whiter than a sheet. I know he's feeling exactly the same as I am. Condemned. Trapped. Alone in a room that is meant for faith and for love.

"You may kiss the bride."

He's looking at me saying come on, Hermione, we have to. Grey eyes, pleading with me, even though I know he is experiencing the exact same crushing sensation on his chest as I am. The anxiety pulling at every sinewy muscle. The sensation of drowning. Shit. Draco Malfoy leans in, nose first, his lips second, and I know I have to meet him halfway. I have to look like I want to kiss him. The kiss is another demonstration of our damning.

It all started several months ago. Malfoy moved into my office - I work in Legal Claims for the Ministry - with this ridiculous box of items he'd hauled from his desk at home. I teased him relentlessly. A lot of people thought it was flirting. It might have been to start with, unconsciously. He used to comment that I was wasted in Legal Claims, that I belonged somewhere bigger and better, which obviously made my tiny ego grow a little more.

We started taking lunch together, and I was a little more distanced from my old friends. Ron and Harry were away a lot on Auror business, running with wands and desperately trying to retain their glory days. I felt that jealous pang of being left behind - the one that Ron must have done while Harry and I continued the quest to destroy the Horcruxes. I loved them, of course, but I couldn't help but want more than my non-impact work.

"If you hate your job so much, why don't you do something else?" Malfoy asked one day, half a biscuit in his mouth and coffee in his left hand. "You complain about it all the time - it's actually painfully exhausting. Why not, I don't know, ask to move?"

"I can't just ask to move, that's so rude," I argue, glaring back at him. Because how dare he have such a carefree attitude towards life. My bitterness flared up inside me, wanting to have that same way of thinking.

"You're Hermione Granger. You can do whatever the fuck you like."

"Malfoy!"

"I heard it from you first."

The single time I had sworn so crudely, and that was the time he listened to me. But I thought about it significantly more after that. About having something more. I would never directly ask for a different job - that's just not me - but certainly I could ask for something more. I started researching old articles on what I'd been interested since I found out about Elfish rights. The ways they had been treated; the ways in which wizards had denied the rights of other magical beings for so long. It was honest work, so different from the Legal Claims. There, I would weasel my way out of legalities; try and get people to pay us for damage the Ministry had incurred. But Rights. That's where my heart was.

Only one problem. I needed money.

"No, I'm afraid we need you to remain in Claims, Miss Granger." When I asked my boss why, he replied simply, "We can't afford to lose people in our team." My heart hurt a little when he said that. Unfeeling eyes, dipping his quill into an almost dried-up ink pot, completely disregarding. Those words meant that I was of no worth other than manpower. They meant that I wasn't glorious or special or needed, but required simply to perform a mundane task for someone else. For someone like me, when they hear that, and see Harry and Ron swaggering around the Auror office, it fills me with resentment. The Auror program was never really my calling – but that's where my two best friends were, and they were succeeding exponentially. And I was stuck.

After that, the weeks passed unbearably slowly. I spent my days reading through the mountainous bumf of reports, with Draco muttering at the desk beside mine. He would turn a page, sigh in exasperation, make a note, and continue reading. Like some sort of insane ritual, one the both of us were in attendance of.

As if by magic, two entire months had passed, and my working relationship with Draco had expanded to some sort of close friendship. Instead of taking my problems to my mother, or my best friends, I found myself confiding in him, relishing in watching his rather dramatic eyebrows dance across his face in surprise. There were things within the job that I was angry about – for example, a witch who demanded that we pay for her ten thousand galleon goblin-made suit of armour that had been stolen in the night – or the wizard who wanted compensation for a plant pot that had chased him twenty-seven miles. But I was also angry at Harry and Ron, who were frivolous with their high income and their glory. Harry and Ginny were happier than they had ever been, having rekindled their own love in some strange and passionate reconciliation which was frankly quite disturbing to any onlookers. Ron pranced around with women who threw themselves at him, too exhausted by the idea of a relationship. Always scared of commitment.

Then there was me. Loner, loser, and complicated wreck. Friends with the devil, and lusting after a different life.

"Draco told us you were looking to fund some new research – is that correct?" Narcissa Malfoy asked, lifting her goblet to her lips, five months after my initial request to the Ministry. Somehow, I was there in Malfoy Manor again, caught in afternoon tea with Draco and his parents. Time had rushed by in a crazy fashion, by which I was suddenly being introduced to Narcissa and Lucius, and they were rather graciously inviting me into their lavish home. I felt the wave of nausea in the entrance hall, as I expected, but it passed with Draco's light hand on my back and the warmth of the fire in the next room.

"Yes," I replied, sitting up a little straighter. "Unfortunately, the Ministry wouldn't allow me to change course."

"It's not exactly a course it you're going nowhere," Draco muttered. "Sorry."

I shrug. "It's true. They told me all I was worth is manpower." Narcissa scowled appropriately, setting down her goblet on a mahogany table to her left.

"So, you gave up?" I blanched, taken aback by her cutting words. Of course, I should have expected them. "My apologies. What is the research on?"

"Rights of Elves and other magical beings." The Malfoys looked between themselves, as though sharing half a conversation without my knowledge. I felt as if I should fill the uncomfortable silence with something – and certainly not singing. "You know, how wizards have oppressed Elves, and how Centaurs are treated poorly, and the whole incident of half-breed naming and disregarding… Well, you know." I stopped, seeing them watching me with intensity. I swallowed thickly.

"We think there is a way we can help each other out," Narcissa began.

Then Lucius, from his stoic position, shifted forwards, about to engage in conversation.

"You need money, yes?" I nodded. "And our image is not the best these days." I laughed in agreement. "But we still have more than sufficient funding for our lives, luxury, and other business ventures. So, think of this as a business venture."

"Sorry, Mr Malfoy, but what are you suggesting?"

"Marry Draco." What? "Marry our son, Draco. We will pay for the wedding, of course. Everything on that end will be dealt with. In return, you will get enough money, and more, to fund your research." I glanced in Draco's direction, his pale face more like death than ever before. His eyes were gazing blankly in a different direction. For a moment, our eyes met, but his father was still talking. "It will be good for Draco to be seen with you, and to be seen supporting your Rights Movement. Beneficial to us as a family, and we will continue to fund your project as long as you wish us to."

"Can I think about it? Talk to Draco about it, maybe?"

"We'll leave the room while you discuss," Narcissa interrupted her husband, standing briskly and dragging her husband from the room. Draco waited, frozen to his spot in the chair. I watched him, listening to the silence that surrounded us in that moment. It felt as though my life was weighted to this moment. And I was weighted down from this spot.

He breathed a sigh. "You don't have to agree."

"But the money…" Draco ran a hand through his hair, standing up. He was stressed, and I could tell immediately. That shocked me. "This is insane, right? I can't actually marry you for money. You can't possibly want to marry me – my image isn't that great."

"Hermione, it's really not that. It wasn't my… Look, you need the money."

As it turned out, it was horribly difficult to argue with that fact. I did need the money. And I was not one to shy away from helping other people – even Draco Malfoy, who I had grown weirdly close to over the last few months of working together. The wedding was planned fast, before I had even been publicly proposed to.

"Yes," I choked out, when Draco was down on one knee, smiling, with a dead look in his eyes. I didn't know whether he meant it, or if he didn't want to have meant it. It was like some sort of strange paradox. I was dying, condemned by each decision I made. Condemned to marrying Draco, and saying that I loved him, and that I wanted to spend my life with him. Of course, in an odd way I did want to spend my life with him, but I never possibly imagined that I would be marrying him, and certainly not in a way that made me feel as though I was prostituting myself.

Harry and Ron smiled their way through the ceremony, happy that I had found someone, but less than pleased that the someone was Draco Malfoy. They had settled into lives of their own, increasingly more distant than they had been since Auror training began. When I took a year to go back to Hogwarts, it was like Harry and Ron were so far away I could barely remember their faces. And now we were here.

Three quarters of the way through a personal bottle of Bordeaux and people were still congratulating me on my wedding, hugging Draco and claiming that it was the most wonderful pairing. I didn't understand why.

"What now?" I asked, as we drove off to our honeymoon destination, backs to our friends and family.

"What do you mean?"

"I've got my money. You've got the marriage. What… Next?"

He sat in silence for several minutes, clearly thinking over his life that has become ruined by my choice to accept his false hand in marriage. I waited. Because what comes next? Did we continue living a lie like this, or did we expand the lie and have children? The last thought in particular is one I couldn't bear to consider.

"We go on living as a happily married couple, I guess," he replied eventually. "You get to do your research. I'll be a faithful husband and desperately hope that you stay faithful as well. Society repairs. Everyone goes on living."

"You hate my friends."

"I used to hate you."

"You don't now?"

The sun glowed bright in the distance, resting on a golden horizon. Draco Malfoy turned to me, smiling again, as he did so often. But it was not the smile I remembered. It was melancholy. As if I was breaking his heart with every blue second we spent together.

"Of course not, no."

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	31. Chapter 31: A Wizard

**Houses Competition, yet again.**

 **Ravenclaw, Head of House - written for Year 6, Drabble, Prompt: Diagon Alley, WC: 252**

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He got in! He was going to Hogwarts!

First, for young Remus Lupin, there was joy. There was joy because he wouldn't be a recluse for the rest of life, and he would be able to be around other people for once. He could eat well, study hard, and try to make it in the difficult thing we all call life. But then there was the crushing realisation.

He would be around other people. And he was dangerous.

Professor Albus Dumbledore said he had fixed a solution to his little problem. The fact of the matter was, however, that Remus was certain no one would want to be friends with him once they discovered that his little problem was actually about him being a werewolf. Not many people gravitate towards that.

Those were his thoughts as he wandered through Diagon Alley, looking around in wonder at the many magical objects he had dreamed of for years. There were other children too, staring at his clothing, and his parents, and, he was certain, staring because they already knew (before he made a mistake and blurted his secret to many people for badgering him for answers). They were staring at him because they knew he was a werewolf, he was sure.

Remus felt claustrophobic, closed in. Maybe Hogwarts wouldn't be such a good idea after all.

That feeling lingered inside his stomach until he came to Ollivander's, and he had been presented with a wand.

He wasn't just a werewolf.

He was a wizard.

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	32. Chapter 32: Halfway Hotel

**AU, in which Fred Weasley is alive and kidnapped by someone. Hermione is trying to find out what happened, and why it has happened.**

 **Ravenclaw, Head of House - written for Year 6, Short, Prompt: Knockturn Alley, WC: 541**

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I turn away from Diagon Alley, glancing around quickly to see who is watching. I can't have someone following me down here; it wouldn't look good, and I need to do this alone. My cloak whips tighter in the rush of wind as I pass the sign for Knockturn Alley, its darkness wrapping around me instantly. Even during noon the Alley is filled with shadows that stalk my every move, and figures that chase themselves. The streets churn and turn confusingly. But I know where I'm headed.

"Pickled nails?" an old woman offers me, chin protruding from the hood of her black cloak. I decline with silence, pushing past her and two others down the street, our shoulders bruising as they knock violently into each other. The cobbles wear down my shoes quickly, and it's not long before my feet are aching with the pressure of the stones.

Finally, I reach my destination. Halfway Hotel.

Even the door frame is covered with grime, built up over years of misuse. I thank Merlin for gloves and cross the threshold.

"Need a room?"

The attendant is an old wizard, face tired, hair greasy, disposition disgusting. He wheezes with his words, already reaching for his wand mere centimetres away, and growing tired with the action. I know who he is already. Edgar Bullrick. It was in the file I read two days ago when I began to prepare for the mission. Ninety-four years of age. Was married to Elena Malfoy, but she died young and he never remarried. Sad really, but I feel no care for him in particular. I also know the crimes he has committed.

But I'm not here for him.

"One on the second floor, if possible." He scowls at my audacity and turns away from me, towards the sets of jangling keys behind the desk. With a swish of my wand, his memory is wiped from the last few seconds, and I am already racing up the stairs to where I know they are keeping him.

Room 243. Up two flights of stairs, and across 43 rooms. They blur past as I start to run, heart pounding, blood pumping too quickly through my veins. There's not enough oxygen to breathe, and the walls feel as though they're closing in on me. Fred. Come on, where are you?

Rumours have been circulating for a year. That he's not dead, but taken. Taken half of the whole that is Fred and George Weasley. Last week we got word that it was almost certain, and that the kidnappers were in London, planning something big. It didn't make sense - why would Fred be with them for the plans? Unless he was somehow part of it? Two days ago, I was given the case file by the Order. Find Fred Weasley. Stop whatever they are going to do, no matter what it takes.

Room 243.

I kick in the door, too lazy and too tired to bother with magic right now.

My hood flips over, glaring into the room, challenging all those who may come forward.

"Hermione?"

A flash of red hair in my peripheral, a worried shout - get out! - and a crashing pain on the side of my head.

I'm out like a light.

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	33. Chapter 33: The Last Train

**Houses Competition, AU piece.**

 **Ravenclaw, HoH, Short, Prompt: First line (He had missed the last train and there was only one person he could think to talk to at three in the morning, too bad they broke up last week.), WC: 648**

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He had missed the last train and there was only one person he could think to talk to at three in the morning, too bad they broke up last week. It would be awkward now, regardless of what time he was calling.

"Hello? Ron?" she picked up immediately, tired voice humming monotonously into the speaker. "Is everything okay? It's.. Shit, 3am."

"Or late," Ron disputed, smiling in spite of himself. He couldn't help it, because Jesus if he wasn't still totally in love with Hermione Granger then he didn't know anything. She was gorgeous, and smart, and utterly ridiculous. And she was sighing on the other end of the phone. "I missed the last train back."

"Can you get a taxi?"

"Hermione, there's no one around. Not even a mouse." She shuffled up in bed; he could hear by the rustling of sheets. But there someone else was with her. There was talking. "I know we broke up last week, and I know I hurt you."

"Ron, what do you want?"

"I haven't got anyone else."

Ron glanced around the empty station. There was one other man, dressed in the fluorescent orange jacket of the security guards overnight uniform. Lights flickered above, casting the dramatic shadows over metallic benches and closed-up kiosk stands. He imagined Hermione, resting in the dark room they used to share, bleary-eyed and trying desperately to think, even though her mind must have been worn-out from sleep.

"Where are you?" Hermione asked, exasperated.

"The station," he answered, rubbing a hand over his face. This was embarrassing, but he wouldn't dare to explain to his brothers, who lived too far away in London. And Ginny was asleep with her children – there was no way he could disturb her. "I'm so sorry, Hermione."

"I'm on my way." He could tell she was frustrated, and perhaps too tired to drive. Guilt rested in him, churning his stomach. He felt sick. But he needed to see her, and perhaps that was why he had tried her first rather than any taxi company he knew of. It wasn't like he expected anything to come from the drive home, but there was always the sliver of a chance.

She was running towards, him, hair bundled back, wearing jogging bottoms and a loose jacket that had been her father's. It was flapping around her hips as she ran, then jogged, then walked in his direction. Ron was somewhere between bemused and hopeful. "The car's waiting," she was saying, tugging on his arm. Did she leave the engine running or something? She was smelling him for alcohol and worse, dragging him with her. Then she was opening the backseat door of her tiny car. Why can't I sit in the front?

"Alright there, little brother?" said a loud voice from the front seat. Ron hummed loudly in confusion, having trouble doing his seatbelt up. "Aw Hermione, no, don't help him!" Fred Weasley laughed brightly, watching Hermione buckle Ron in and close the door before stepping into the passenger seat.

"Wha -?" The words didn't seem to come out as Ron intended. Why are you here? What are you doing? Why isn't Hermione driving? Why are you here?

"Hermione had a couple glasses of wine so we decided it would be better for me to drive her out here to get you," Fred explained. From his seat, Ron could see she was smiling at her brother, more sweetly than she had ever smiled at him or anyone else before. "Odd, but it makes sense. Right?" Fred laughed and Ron felt sick.

"Is this why then?" he asked, placing a hand on Hermione's head rest to keep him steady. "My brother…? He's why you broke up with me?"

"Ron…" Hermione began slowly, and he knew it must be the truth. "Fred, look out!"

A pair of great, glowing yellow lights were careening towards them.

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	34. Chapter 34: Into The Valley

**AU (kinda AU, anyway) for the Houses Competition. Ron and Hermione having travelled to a valley to seek out Death Eaters.**

 **Ravenclaw, HoH, Drabble, Prompt: Antipodean Opaleye, WC: 355**

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"Holy shit."

"What a beautiful sentiment, Ronald," I mutter, adjusting the straps of my small backpack. Ron stands two feet behind me, utterly gormless, staring down into the valley. "Come on, we need to be closer."

He looks horrified for a moment, then swallows thickly and nods, as though resigning himself to some terrible fate. As if I have doomed him in exactly one sentence. But it's no matter; this is all part of the mission, and it must be done. I start walking before he does, feet slipping ever so slightly on the craggy rocks decorating our summit as we look down into the valley. The valley that just so happens to contain a resting Antipodean Opaleye. Its huge head rests at the trough of the Northern glacier, while its tail is curled halfway down the valley.

"What does the Order need us to do, again?"

"Do you ever listen?"

"Just answer the question, Hermione," he replies, frustrated already.

"We need to get into the mountain – you know, by its head. Then we gather intel on the Death Eater population, and report back to HQ."

Ron nods in understanding, grabbing onto a patch of grass as we descend further down into the valley. Unable to apparate, we have to navigate the grounds without that all-too-convenient method of transportation.

We trek carefully, stones crumbling beneath our feet and falling down the rock face. It's unnerving, to say the least. We creep past the pearly grey body of the dragon. It really is beautiful – I finally understand Charlie's fascination with them. So brilliant that the scales are even slightly iridescent, reflecting the dying sunlight.

"Be quiet," I mouth to Ron.

But then it happens.

As I'm tapping against the door that will lead us to the Death Eaters, red sparks fly out the end of my wand, ricocheting in every direction.

I turn slowly.

Pale eyes, shimmering with malice. No pupil. Wide mouth, slowly animating itself to life. The dragon shifts. I'm caught in the gaze that stares back at me. Frozen.

Ron moves behind me, reaching out a hand to calm the beast.

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	35. Chapter 35: Avoidance Is My Game

**Houses Competition. A Muggledom piece, therefore highly AU.**

 **Ravenclaw, HoH, Short 2 (Additional), Prompt: "From the moment I met you, I knew I would spend the rest of my life avoiding you.", WC: 560**

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"Hermione!"

Draco Malfoy is shouting after me, his words chasing me down the overpopulated London street. I ignore him. I've desperately been trying to avoid him all week, especially after what he said to me on that awful Monday morning. He's been tragically unbearable since he joined my team at work two months ago. I work as a Project Manager in Claims for the marginally elusive insurance company, Gooper & Chan. Before two months ago, Draco was a Project Manager for the slightly more glamorous IT Infrastructure. Exciting, I know.

Stupid company makes it too easy to move departments.

Despite having first worked with him two months ago, I met Draco three years ago in the staff cafeteria. He was an arse, and I've been trying to avoid him ever since. I remember it well. He hit on me whilst I was reaching for my sandwich in the shared fridge. Then he informed me that it was part of the workplace banter. Personally, I find that sort of behaviour to be totally inappropriate. Alas, I'm not a snitch. I ignored him, moved on, and went back up to my sixth-floor office to argue over biscuits in meetings.

Two months ago, we were forced into the same team. Malfoy was supposedly moving to Claims permanently, and so had to shadow to a higher-up. Me. He's been utterly… Ridiculous ever since. Providing jokes for people in important meetings with clients, laughing down the phone at customers, dressing completely inappropriately – jeans and a cotton shirt is not our attire, but he refuses to change it. Utterly unprofessional. Last week, he informed me that he would be much better doing my job, with me being the subordinate. But not just at work. Suggesting... Urgh. Suggesting that, somehow, he should have dominance over me in both my professional and personal life.

Thus, I'm not talking to him.

I walk faster, making it to a small park that's crowded with lunch-goers.

"Hermione, will you please just stop a minute!" he shouts again, closer this time. "I need to talk to you about the Milton-Harrison case!"

I halt and he almost stumbles into me in his haste.

"You shouldn't have said that."

"I know, and I'm sorry." Draco wipes a hand over his face and glances around, as if concerned that someone will spot him even tending towards sentimental. His hair is a mess, which is unusual for him. "You're a far better boss than I could ever be. I didn't intend to suggest something lewd that would make you disappear. I just wanted to joke. I thought we could joke, can't we?"

Silence.

"I meant about the case. That's classified."

"Oh." He tries to smile. "In that case, you do still have a great little arse."

Smack!

"Really?" I ask, my hand stinging and eyes blurring with stupid tears. Stupid because I'm old enough to know that he doesn't know any better than to say these idiotic things. "You actually think it's okay to say that to someone? Jesus, Malfoy. From the moment I met you, I knew I would spend the rest of my life avoiding you. And for good cause."

He touches his cheek lightly, staring back at me with grey eyes. "Hermione, my brain obviously doesn't engage when I talk to you." He sighs. "I'm just…"

"Just what?"

"Totally in love with you."

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	36. Chapter 36: The Last Will and Testament

**The Houses Competition. Slightly AU. In a world where Hermione and Fred were more of a possibility.**

 **Ravenclaw, HoH, Drabble, Prompt: To my (blank), I leave, WC: 497**

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 _To my family, I leave you with my final will and testament._

The Ministry Official read the words in a slow, monotonous voice, starkly contrasting Fred's vibrancy. Molly breathed in sharply, as if surprised. Somehow, sometime, Fred Weasley had written a will.

 _To Percy, my personal joke book. You can publish that, earn some galleons, and get out of your job. Plus, everyone needs a laugh nowadays and George needs a new partner._

Percy smiled, a glistening tear on his cheek.

 _To Charlie, the man who is an island. The first time you came back from Hungary you brought back Horntail scales. Mine have been in my pocket ever since. Now maybe you can have the same, ridiculous luck I've had. Don't be a stranger._

 _To Ron, I leave my half of the store for you, for whenever you want it. George and I always have your back._

Ron looked shocked for a moment, staring at George from the other side of the room. George didn't speak, but nodded in Ron's direction. That's all it took for Ron to collapse back onto the sofa, face in his hands.

Words blurred together over the next couple of minutes as other names were called. I can't quite remember all of it, because the shock of hearing my own name exploded through my body and time itself. I was utterly nonplussed; never in my wildest dreams did I expect to be in Fred Weasley's will.

 _To Hermione, the biggest book I've ever read. Of Mice and Men. PS. I enjoyed it immensely._

Instantly, my chest is compressing, filling with emotion. I'd lent him the book, a mere 80 pages long, in a warm corridor nearing curfew. We'd shared the moment intimately, fingers brushing, smiling discreetly in the shadows.

 _To my best friend and brother, I leave you my bed. I couldn't think of anything we don't share. I'm sorry to disappoint._

George was gone, folded into himself, lost in thoughts and in total disrepair. It was like watching a car crash.

Minutes later, I was approached by the Ministry Official alone.

"Miss Granger?" He caught me in the kitchen, absentmindedly washing up to keep unwelcome thoughts at a safe distance. I turned to him. "Mr Weasley wanted me to give you this discreetly. A letter. I haven't read it, so I don't know what it contains. But he explicitly said I was to give it to you away from prying eyes."

"Thank you," I murmured, wiping my hands and taking the sealed envelope.

He left us in disarray. My heart felt blocked up, chest aching, desperate to read what private words Fred had written to me. I wanted to know what he wanted me to know more than anything, so I could hold onto him for just a little bit longer. Finally, I bade everyone goodnight and, drawn to Fred's old room, flopped down onto his familiar bed, peeling open the seal. I took a deep breath.

 _My Dear Hermione..._

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	37. Chapter 37: My Other Half

**The Houses Competition, AU as far as I'm aware.**

 **Ravenclaw, HoH, Drabble (Additional HoH), Prompt:** **"Calling him/her/them my other half means that neither of us is whole.", WC: 370**

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"Calling him my other half means that neither of us is whole."

I remembered telling my mother that once when I was much younger and somewhat much wiser. She had been asking whether Ron, my other half, was treating me well amidst the chaos following the war.

"Are you whole, though, my dear?"

To be asked that was entirely perplexing, because I thought I seemed whole. And if I wasn't whole, did that mean that, by sharing myself with someone else, I was automatically diminished by the other person? Reduced to even less of myself? Of course, this puzzling view continued to distort my mind throughout the next few years, forcing me to consider myself as less as a person because _what type of person is not wholly themselves_? I struggled to find little pieces of my own thoughts and judgement after that one day when my mother questioned me so. If I was not whole, then I couldn't make whole-hearted decisions, and maybe it was better to claim back the bits of myself that Ron was supposedly in possession of.

Two years of contemplation later, and we were sitting in a grimy coffee shop, as I fruitlessly tried to explain my predicament to him. Nevertheless, he knew we were breaking up. He drank his coffee, pretended to understand, and then left.

Contrary to my expectations, I felt as though he took my other half with him and have been lost ever since. Although I thought the pieces of me might come back, and I could become truly me again – able to make better decisions, able to achieve higher, able to do more as a person and as a human – I was wrong. Ron had that half of me, and when he left, it was attached to him. When I thought of the lost part of me, it was always synonymous with Ron.

This wasn't to say that I was nothing without him, because that was entirely untrue.

Ron had been keeping that half of me safe within him. And I had to get it back. I had to celebrate the fact that we were halves of each other, but that it didn't make us any less complete.

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	38. Chapter 38: Mrs Granger

**The Houses Competition. Canon-Compliant. (Unlike me, right? I know)**

 **Ravenclaw, HoH, Short, Prompt: Mrs Granger, WC: 1041**

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My daughter is Hermione Granger. She's a witch, apparently. But not the kind with a green nose and bulbous eyes, evil running through her veins. She's like Glinda the Good. Frizzy hair, brown eyes, and intelligence in her gaze. Her father and I knew she would be brilliant whichever path she took in life – we just didn't expect Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

The very first year we sent her off to Scotland was one of the most terrifying things Robert and I have done. Of course, the travels in our youth were interesting and we encountered much. Yet, my daughter leaving me for nine months of the year seemed completely inconceivable. I dreaded every night that something would happen while she was away and we would be unable to help her. Without telephone contact, I had no idea how I was supposed to remain as close to her as I wished to be. She suggested the school owls and little over a week later we received the first one, clicking at our window, an envelope clutched in its beak.

Her letter was written in a beautiful cursive, telling tales of the magic there, but without mention of any friends yet. I had hoped she would make friends quickly, with so many people there. She told us that she'd joined Gryffindor house, which was supposedly the place for the courageous and brave. She told us that she didn't feel as though she quite fit in there, which was not all that uncommon for our wonderful Hermione. She was used to feeling like she was alone and thus used her cleverness to look past the advantage of friends. She was perfectly attuned to being a lone wolf, but it didn't mean that she didn't crave friendship just like everyone else.

Meanwhile, our lives went on. We wrote her back quickly as possible, trying to include words of encouragement, and pieces of our own lives. She wanted to know about the mundanity of our lives, while we were eager to know about every extraordinary detail of hers. I tried to avoid asking too many questions, and instead spoke about funny little things that patients murmured to me whilst they were high on anaesthetic, and about how her father walked into the oven again that day, and how Mrs Baggins – the neighbour – watered her stones, forgetting she no longer had grass out the front of her house. I wanted to make sure she knew that home would always be there for her, in support.

Her second year, she didn't even come home for Christmas. Twelve years of age, and I wasn't going to see my daughter for 10 months that year. It would be our first Christmas apart. It was utterly heart-wrenching. Like every mother, I cherished my daughter. But I certainly wanted to allow her to grow and develop as a woman and a witch, whichever came first. If that meant not seeing her for a little while longer, then I could endure the heartache of an empty chair at Christmas and the family questions over why she was away for the holidays, _where could Hermione be that she should miss Christmas Day?_

Our gifts came in the post. We sent ours to her via the owl that came to our window a few days before Christmas. I hope she liked them.

Often it felt as though Hermione told us only half the story of what was going on at school; that she and Ron were fighting, that bad things were going on but they were doing something to help, homework was difficult, and something about Quidditch that everyone seemed to be extremely excitable about. We heard, I presumed, half of the true story. And that was okay with us, although it settled oddly in my stomach.

During her fourth year we had excitable letters about different cultures attending the school, and how they were all really looking forward to the Tournament. This was all following from a rather catastrophic summer in which there was some trouble at the World Cup. She hid the paper from us, claiming it was nothing, though we saw a change in her. There was something defiant and strong about her, and we loved her more for being the woman she had become. She was incandescent. But the change happened again throughout that year. Someone had died – she told us that much. A student had died in the competition, and everyone was supposed to be looking out for each other more. Her friend, Harry, had been involved. That was why she had to leave us during the summer to stay with wizards. She wasn't even going to stay for the summer holidays.

To say I was upset is a gross understatement. But I also knew that her heart and her mind were extraordinarily powerful, and that it _must_ have all been for an excellent reason.

Our daughter grew more distant over the next couple of years. She was incredibly focused on research for school and extracurricular things. She turned away from us to her wizarding world. I was so concerned for her safety – because what on earth could make our daughter feel fear such as that? What on earth would make her behave so differently? She was sad, and I felt it. Robert and I were going to have a conversation with her at dinner. We sat down to eat, her favourite meal plated up, a few days after she told us she wasn't going to be continuing education at Hogwarts. And… And…

…

"Wendell, we're going to be late, dear!" I shouted through the house, casting my eyes over it for the final time. Everything was packed up – old family photos and memories in one large truck at the front of our home of eighteen years. I had no idea why we stayed so long, other than our excellent jobs.

But now it was time to fulfill our dream and move to Australia. There was nothing keeping us here anymore.

My husband trundled down the stairs, looking perplexed.

"Everything okay?" I asked.

"Dandy, my beautiful wife," he replied, smiling down at me and popping a desert hat on his head.

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	39. Chapter 39: New Year's Eve

**AU, Houses Competition. Hermione's family always come over on New Year's Eve. This year, Fred is in attendance. Long-term boyfriend, and a delight in the chaotic household for the evening.**

 **Ravenclaw, HoH, Themed, prompt: Proposal & First line; There was always a point at the (Family name) reunions where things went from boring to fun., WC: 2945**

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There was always a point at the Granger Family reunions where things went from boring to fun. Everyone knew that. So, as Fred and I greet the endless flow of people who enter our house without knocking, I'm reminding him of everything that could possibly go wrong tonight. My Uncle Kevin, who drinks too much and usually strips naked. My grandmother, who tends to sing to herself and disrupt the quietness of a moment. My two cousins, who are small and annoying – and who I am also sure will get on amazingly with Fred. As much as I know the evening will end in utter chaos and far too much alcohol, I also know that it will begin dreadfully slowly.

The youngest cousins, Sarah and Jonathan, sit in the corner of the living room, connected to a charger and their faces attached to their phones. Blue light flooding their faces. Completely antisocial. I don't bother engaging with them just yet, as my mother is coming through the door, shouting about the weather.

"Hi mum," I murmur, kissing her cheek quickly and taking the huge casserole dish she's brought with her. She's dressed in a glittery dress, her wristwatch obviously a Christmas present from my father, who smiles politely into the crowd of people currently occupying the kitchen. I know the crowds make him uncomfortable, even though most of the guests here already are his family. He salutes to his brother, Kevin, and mumbles something about going to get the wine. _This should be interesting._

"Melissa!" Fred calls from behind me, already armed with a beer. My mother smiles brightly at him as the two move to hug each other in greeting.

That's my cue to leave.

Ignoring the fake, high-pitch laughter of my aunt Carol, I high-tail it outside to see my dad paused by the boot of their Polo, staring at the keys as though very confused. He's having another of his episodes. But, as the word indicates, it's just an episode and not a series of horrible moments where he just _can't remember_ where he is, or what he's doing. I touch his arm lightly, bringing him back to life.

"Alright, Dad?" He nods in response. "Lemme help with that."

Together, we haul the box of wine and case of beer into the house, locking the car behind us. Fred doesn't pause in his light-hearted conversation with my mother, even when I give him a warning look – a look that tells him that the evening started with another episode, and that we might encounter more. But he knows he mustn't make a big thing about it. My parents are incredibly happy together, and no one wants their magical image shattered, even if everyone else sees what's going on.

"You know," Fred starts, bumping my shoulder with his, "this will be a good New Year. Your dad is fine, and there's plenty of alcohol." I smile lightly, turning towards him and stealing the glass of rose from his hand. He grins and winks. "What can go wrong with me here?"

"Literally everything," I laugh easily. Fred frowns ever so slightly and swigs at his beer, glancing at the room around us. "I'm joking. I need you here to liven things up."

"No kidding," he sputters as my grandfather drifts off to sleep in the quietness of the living room. Elsewhere in the house, I hear my uncle, Kevin, talking about his latest collection of wine, and his wife, Carol, interrupting every so often with a dulcet _yes, Kevin is quite the intellectual_. Specifically, after he says something ridiculously pompous that could be classified as intelligent. In the kitchen, my mother is attempting to tell my cousin, Adrian, the many things that are wrong with the way our carrots have been diced. Dull as dishwater conversation, but the night has just begun.

Our evening slowly begins to increase in entertainment as the little things start happening – you know, the little things that occur when family members get drunk around each other. Earlier, my mother stirred her tea with a cucumber stick, much to the hilarity of the only onlooker, Fred. He then proceeded to tell me, in guffaws of laughter, about her silly act.

"That's nothing," I say, grinning, and waiting for the fun to start. "Wait and see."

"This is why I love you so much," Fred murmurs, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of my mouth. I look up in question, perplexed. "Because of your secret inner evil genius. Now, come on, let's dance."

One of the thousands of reasons I love Fred Weasley so much is that he has this unbeatable and undeniable energy about him. Throughout Hogwarts, he was tirelessly cooking up plots and pranks to confuse and bemuse everyone in the school. Of course, to my focused and academic mind, anything that disturbed my peace was a frustrating distraction. But then I realised that we all need that bit of freedom and joy in our lives, and that I certainly needed Fred's vibrancy against the stark darkness of the world beyond academia.

It was his idea to hang the glowing lights on the staircase bannister, and to set up streaming ribbons around our house. It was his idea that our home should be filled with people for New Year's Eve, and why not bring the family he wasn't so sure of to our slightly more magical world. My wonderful family are all here, as the evening stretches out delightfully before us. Food is eaten gradually, and family members slowly become more inebriated. For once, I'm not entirely bored. Of course, the Granger Family isn't known for being riotous – they're the intelligent people at the end of the road who tend to get ignored unless you listen too closely.

"Have you got a boyfriend, Hermione?" my grandmother asks, her hand dropping so low that her sherry almost toppled over onto the sofa. I help her out, smiling placidly.

"Yes, I have, grandma. Fred. The red-headed one," I reply, pointing in the corner where Fred is rolling his eyes at me about something Uncle Kevin has said.

"Ah," my grandmother muses. "I did wonder what he was doing here. Are you two going to get married then?"

I pause. _Married?_ We haven't even spoken about that, what with moving into the house, unpacking our lives into separate rooms, and getting used to life together like this.

"I'm not sure," I say, finally. She blinks back at me, and I know she's already gone into a world of her own. Gently, she squeezes my free hand, and a flood of warmth races through my body and to my heart. _Happiness._ I'm suddenly filled with absolute joy that she's here, in her wise, old age. I love my grandmother so much - I remember those days when she would comfort me with walks around the garden, when she would tell me _you will find your way_ when I told her about the kids at school, when she would be the constant source of love and hilarity when my parents fought. Not that the latter was often.

"What time is it, Hermione?"

"Six-thirty, grandma."

"Time for some food then, my dear."

With that, she's leading me to the smorgasbord of food, spread over the table in the dining room. Bread, cheese, cold meats, olives, cocktail sausages, pate, crisps, crackers, butter, and every single hors d'oeuvre anyone could think off. After she peels off the first cling film, there is almost an immediate reaction from some of the younger ones at our gathering. My cousins' children race to the table, phones abandoned in lieu of getting something to eat. Plates clatter, cutlery clinks, and food and hunger are discussed in great length. I take this moment to break away from my grandmother as she turns to the children, cutting up bread and pouring plastic cups full of cola.

The rush of happiness and love for my grandmother also came with a certain rawness. I slip away from the livening party, the voices growing louder, to my room upstairs. Five seconds of breathing. I count them on my fingers six times over.

I return to the mass of people, no one having noticed my absence.

People ask me the same several questions a thousand times over for the next hour; how is the food, where did you get it, did you meet Fred recently, what's happening at work, do you like your job.

"I love my job," I tell my uncle, fifteen minutes after he arrives two hours late. Uncle Joe; consistently unreliable, but the life of the party whenever he turns up. He's laughing raucously, even though I haven't said anything remotely funny. I'm grinning, anyway. "I do, honestly. I wish I was doing something more worthwhile, or something that paid better. But I'll get there."

"You will!" he assures me, with a hard pat on the shoulder and a wink. "You're a bright girl, Hermione. Just gotta show 'em."

"I've been trying."

"I know." Joe's voice is softer this time, as though he really understands my qualms about work. How could I possibly explain my line of work? Especially that my dream job is to achieve magical and social equality for mystical and magical beings. I love my family so much, but sometimes it feels lonely to have that part of me hidden from everyone. "Who's this fellow? I didn't think we were pity-inviting red-heads?"

Fred's laughter is rumbling against my side, felt before I can see him.

"You must be Joe," he says, holding out his hand. "I'm Fred. Hermione's boyfriend."

"Hmm..." Joe muses, grinning. "He's good looking. Temporarily accepted into the family." Fred shrugs in acceptance, and both men look as though they've just made excellent friends. "I'll leave you two lovebirds alone. I think it's time we _crank up the party!_ "

As though manifested from the air itself, Uncle Joe pulls out two vodka bottles, wrapping one arm around his brother, Kevin - our resident drunk uncle. He's through one bottle of wine already, face red, sweaty neck, and his glasses slipping down his nose occasionally. Joe sets the bottle out of reach of the younger children, then disappears into the kitchen to fetch glasses of some sort.

"He's fun," Fred tells me, grinning.

"He's _the_ fun."

Things go quickly uphill from that point. Or downhill - it all depends on your perspective.

Fred is dragged into vodka and tequila shots by the lively bunch, while I am paired with the more demure wine-drinking party-goers in the Granger Family. Within forty minutes, Uncle Kevin has pushed the three of us through three bottles of wine, talking of tone and texture in the drink. To me, it just tastes fruity, warm, and, most importantly, alcoholic. And I am aware that I am considerably more drunk than I was half an hour ago. Kevin has this unerring ability to tempt alcohol like a magical, dangling carrot. He also has this habit of getting undressed when he's had too much to drink. With each glass, a button is undone on his shirt.

"I brought some games with me, Hermione love," my aunt, Carol, interjects as Kevin is about to open the fourth bottle. Kevin looks undeterred, but suddenly games seem like the most fantastic idea. Beside me, my mother nods in avid agreement, quieter than usual.

From the relative peace of the dining room, the rest of the house has gone utterly mad.

The youngest cousins - I say youngest, they're eighteen - are on the Bacardi and coke, Fred seems to be drinking everyone except Uncle Joe to the ground, my grandmother is singing to herself, and my father is laughing with Adrian about something immensely hilarious just told between the two of them.

"Time for games!" Aunt Carol announces to the mob, having summoned Articulate from nowhere. "The aim of the game is to describe the most amount of words without saying the word, anything that rhymes with it, or the amount of syllables. The word can be objects, famous people, places, actions, or random. Correct number of guesses amounts to places moved on the board. First team to the finish line wins."

"It's... Ah... Ah... Something you know, you hold onto!" Uncle Joe calls out to his team of six, the game having been set up almost immediately.

"A breast!" my grandmother hollers confidently, toasting the idea with her sherry. Joe is shaking his head at her, while the rest of us are howling with laughter.

The game is slow and hilarious, with neither team achieving particularly highly - though at this point of the evening, there isn't a single one of us who cares especially about winning. Our family spirit has never had more to it. My mother and father speed through their round, my father only stuttering on one word - _cake, Melissa, cake!_ \- and finally it's time for Fred and me.

"Where we went on holiday in May."

" _Paris_."

"Actor in my favourite movie."

" _Owen Wilson_." From Marley and Me, the soft git.

"Top thing on your bucket list."

" _Skydiving!_ "

"Times up!" Kevin interrupts, grinning at the pair of us, as we grin at each other. "That was incredible."

Family games continue in uproarious fashion. After Articulate, we play Quelf - in which my mother has to wear her dress inside out, Adrian has to sing everything he says, and Carol makes up a Haiku about cheese - which is perhaps the epitome of ridiculousness. The aim of the game is to complete challenges and perform to get a token to move to the finish line on the board. We are made to list body-part slang, to call to the _Lord of the Dice_ when rolling, and chant between turns. By the end of it, we are all in tears of laughter. My youngest cousin, Sarah, falls off her chair, drunk and crying to herself, singing a song from the Descendants movie.

" _Cos my love for you is ridiculous, I never knew that it would be like this_..."

"Half an hour to Midnight everyone. Let's pop some bubbly and watch Jools Holland!"

My mother hurries everyone into the living room, picking up the two bottles of champagne on the kitchen countertop. Immediately, the blasting noise from the television fills the house, Jools Holland announcing his next guest with the same gusto he has had for the last fifteen years of us watching it. A glorious family tradition. I'm about to follow the rabble, when Fred's hand touches mine.

"Hermione, would you mind stepping outside with me for a moment?" he asks, face too close and eyes too intense. "Please?"

I nod. "Sure."

The air is colder than I anticipated and almost instantly sobers me. Fred closes the door behind us.

"It is freezing out here, I know. But I don't want to rush this." _Suspicious_. He sighs heavily, running a hand through his hair. Snow has already started to drift down around us, caught in our moment. "I love your family. I love you. So much. Merlin, how do I even start this properly?"

"It depends what you're starting," I murmur. He grins back at me, sheepish. "What's going on?"

"Skydiving is on your bucket list. I wanted to start this New Year together with something that's on mine."

"Fred?" _Oh Merlin._ He's down on one knee, reaching into his jean pocket. _Oh Merlin, no, is he actually going to…?_ Two breaths, one long moment, and he looks up, popping open the box. Inside it, a simple, glittering, silver engagement ring.

"Hermione, this night with your family has been one of the more entertaining nights of my life. Your family are amazing, and so drunk. It has been, what you describe as, a beautiful chaos. I can't tell you how long I've held onto this little box, waiting for the right moment. But I want to spend the rest of my life in the chaos that is our two families, and to, one day, have our own. If you'll have me." He pauses, as if waiting. I'm frozen to the spot, frostbite, pneumonia, fear, anticipation. "Hermione Jean Granger, will you marry me?"

Yes I say, but my brain isn't engaged and the words aren't coming out, and he's staring up at me. Yes, my mind is screaming at me to spit the damn words out, but I'm frozen to the spot. Snow is falling thickly now, and I can hear the pop of champagne and the glorious laughter inside our house. The rush of warmth, happiness, and love is back, thawing me out. The snow starkly contrasting the bright redness of his hair.

"Yes!" I shout, free of myself. "Merlin, Fred, _absolutely!_ "

He places the ring on my finger, a bubble of laughter bursting out of him. I don't know who's crying more. Eventually we find our way back into the warm house, glasses of bubbly forced into our hand as the countdown to the New Year has begun.

10... 9... 8...

Fred squeezes my hand in comfort. In my peripheral vision, I see my grandmother smiling brightly, having seen the ring adorned on my finger.

7... 6... 5...

The world is a little brighter, and the fireworks are ready. I down the glass of champagne and cough, laughing.

4...

3...

2...

Fred grins at me, leaning his face towards mine. On one, we seal the New Year with a kiss, breaking apart when the group around have started the horrific singing that always accompanies the delightful music of _Auld Lang Syne_. Together, we clasp our arms and sing.

 _We'll take a cup of kindness yet, for the sake of Auld Lang Syne._

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	40. Chapter 40: Dress Shopping with Ronald

**Dress shopping. "Sometimes my greatest accomplishment is keeping my mouth shut."**

 **Using prompts from the Houses Competition. AU. Ron and Hermione are shopping for Hermione's bridesmaid dress, and make an important discovery in the process. I hope y'all enjoy it!**

 **Houses Competition, written for Ravenclaw Year 1 (standing in), Short, Prompts: 1) Dress shopping 2) "Sometimes my greatest accomplishment is keeping my mouth shut.", WC: 879**

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"Come on Ron, honestly. This is a disgusting colour on me," I call through the curtain, scowling at myself in the mirror. Coral pink is not a good colour on anyone, and no more delightful on my pale skin. Dress shopping is not something I love, but today I'm even more twitchy and jumpy, and I have no clue as to why. "Your tie isn't even coral so I don't know why you asked me to try this horrific thing on."

"Because it's funny," he calls back, voice slightly muffled by the distance between us. "I think I need to see it to fully understand the horror you are going through." I curse his name silently, fiddling with the lace trimming on the bust, and the chiffon sleeves. Merlin, who thought sleeves were a good idea on this dress, and puffy ones no less? "Hermione? Come out, let's have a look." I can literally hear him laughing from back here.

I push back the heavy curtain roughly, glaring at him. "Why Ginny and Harry have to get married is beyond me," I mutter darkly. "Especially if it means I have to wear something as foul and ridiculous as this."

"It's not as bad as you're making it out to be."

"Have you even seen the back?"

I turn around.

"It's definitely unique," Ron starts, face reddening with laughter. "You'll be pulling at the wedding wearing that."

"I don't want to pull anyone ever again." With that comment, I stalk back into the changing room and strip myself of the dress immediately, reaching for the green one that hangs beside it. It's a better colour at least, but still has silly, flapping sleeves. "I'm done with pulling men for the rest of my life. It's going to be me and Crookshanks until I die from desiccation and boredom."

"Bit dramatic, don't you think?"

The dress slips on easily, already a much better fit than the other one, and the material feels less cheap. Which probably means it costs more than the amount I could ever consider spending on anything, let alone an item of clothing. My Mother always had a penchant for spending far too much money on warm coats and I, while I admired the soft materials and the beauty of a gown, would far rather go towards the book section of a department store.

"Everything going okay with Malfoy?" Ron asks through the curtain as I'm zipping myself in. Dammit. Stuck. I pull back the curtain and face my back to him, an indication of what I want. He complies, fingers brushing my back in attempting to sweep my hair out of the way. "You know, you can talk to me about him. I know we were together, and we went through all that break up stuff a couple of years ago. But you can talk to me." I nod, turning to face him, sighing heavily. "What's going on?"

Slowly, deflating, I sink down onto the stool outside the changing room. Its plush cushion is insanely calming. "Malfoy and I aren't even dating. Things are so weird."

"Weird how?"

"I want to spend time with him. But he's endlessly frustrating. Funny, brilliant, occasionally unforgivably rude. Most of the time I can't quite rightly explain what I'm feeling when I'm around him, but I know that I want to be with him. To know more about his life and his family. I know I want him to want me, but I'm really not sure he's there yet. I think he needs time to come to terms with everything that's going on." I pause, letting the jumble of words sink in around me. "His mother is dying, and I really don't think he can cope with any more complications in life."

"You're not a complication," Ron assures me. Nevertheless, I shrug, fighting back the frustration again. Because, although I tell the lie that I have no idea what my feelings are for Draco Malfoy, there is this thought in the back of my mind, a little voice that tells me that I know what I'm feeling. I know exactly why he's annoying and wonderful, and I feel waves of joy around him.

"I love him."

My crashing admission breaks the silence.

"Please, don't tell anyone," I implore, throat dry and words cracking.

"Sometimes my greatest accomplishment is keeping my mouth shut," Ron answers, grinning.

"Ronald Weasley, you have so many great achievements," I murmur. In my helplessness, tears threaten to spill over. His face falls just looking at me.

"Hermione, there's nothing wrong with loving him. It's not something to be ashamed of. He's a better man now, a good man. After everything he's been doing lately - helping out with my family, and going to Australia with you, and trying to make up for all the shitty things he did before." Ron brushes my hair from my face, a gesture that has always been comforting to me. "No one is perfect. And you love him, which means something to all of us."

I sniff loudly.

"By the way, I think this dress is the one."

And the floodgates of tears and laughter quite literally spill over, and I'm sobbing into Ron's shoulder, the stress released from me in an instant.

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 **Thanks for reading!**


	41. Chapter 41: Miss Brightside

**AU, Muggledom. For the Houses Competition. I warn you, plentiful swearing. Not what I initially planned. Also, Pansy and Astoria which is totally new to me.**

 **Ravenclaw HoH, Themed, Prompt: Mr Brightside, W: 2034**

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I glance across at Astoria in my stupor, red wine filling the void between my thoughts and feelings. Cigarette smoke streams from her lips, camisole strap falling from her bare shoulders. I can hardly think straight, fuelled by alcohol, and drugs, and undamageable happiness. It burns my skin. She stretches up from the unmade bed, back bending to get rid of the kinks from a restless night. And yet, it's not even morning.

Darkness casts shadows across us. She stumbles from the bed, still hung up on the liquor and the burnt drugs from a few hours before. I watch her go from my place in the bed, sheet covering my bare skin. Suddenly, I feel horribly exposed. Astoria is leaving. She has places to be in the middle of the night apparently, barely turning to glance in my direction as she searches for her clothes. For a moment, I think she doesn't realise that I'm just about awake, as she pulls on her skinny jeans. But then she sees me, sizzling the butt of her cigarette into the ashtray on the bedside table. She sees me looking blearily back at her, half convinced that I'm still dreaming.

Astoria's lips twitch with something I decide is a smile. But then she vanishes from the room, jacket whipping around the corner on her way out.

Sometimes she can make me feel as though I am worth every second of the day and every breath into my lungs. Other times, it can seem as though I am her cheap night out, all too intrigued by her stock of pills and booze, willing to do whatever she wants to spend just an hour in her glorious company. All dark hair, green eyes, and smoking looks. Ashes fluttering in the air around us.

But I understand. I'm her stolen moments.

Head pounding, heart throbbing, I stand slowly and stagger to the window. The wine has made my head heavy and my limbs free of any strength they once possessed. Cigarette smoke stench curls around my fingers, moving aside the thick curtains. Beyond them, the moon shimmers down onto the dark street below. Astoria slips out of the door of the motel and into the street. For a moment, I think that she's going to disappear into the shadows. But then… Another figure approaches her, and not with an unkindly stature. His blond hair reflective in the moonlight.

His lit cigarette throws his face into orange glow while Astoria calls a cab.

I step back from the window.

The weight of sleep is pulling me back to the bed, as if walking in reverse to my actions from earlier. Behind my eyes, I see the cigarette smoke, his hand on her back, both of them smiling, hauling into the cab together. I see them falling into bed together, sick to the stomach with my mind's conjurations. Her fingers brushing his chest, his hands in her hair, pulling apart her outfit with delicate fingers.

Horrified, nauseous, my eyes flash open and I look frantically around for _anything_ else to think about; for anything else to see other than the betrayal I fear so much. It's not an impossibility. I saw them get into the cab together. I don't know where they went or what they were doing. But I saw them together.

The hallucinations happen after we spend time together, Astoria and me.

After the drugs, and the sex, and the blaring music, everything is so much more confusing. I feel as though I see things manifesting from the shadows themselves. So afraid that she's going to leave me for someone who will better understand her situation – for someone like Draco Malfoy. Because why wouldn't she? What reason does she have to spend this time with me other than her sexual orientation? My family accepted me for what I was, but hers are less than inclined to believing her words. My family left me to my own devices years ago, allowing me to pass through their house when the night closes and my day is over, not acknowledging my presence.

Astoria, however, is a goddess. Her family would sooner accept her as a witch than bisexual.

Dawn bursts through the carpet curtains, searing my retinas, four hours later.

In the air, dust rotates around itself, creating patterns in the golden light. Slowly, surely, I come out of the cage of the room, purse tucked in my coat pocket, and heading out onto my own walk of shame. Every time I close my eyes, I see them. Her dark hair, his blonde hair, noses touching, all hands and love and pleasure. I feel sick. My day is haunted by the image of them. Getting dressed into workwear. Chatting to Melissa at lunch. Slipping away to bed before the rest of the family later on in the day.

My thoughts disrupt sleep more than often. We always get high together. We always drink copious amounts of red wine. We always alter our chemistry and minds to be together. Does she need that to be with me? Does she need her entire body to be numbed from the inebriation to spend time with me? Perhaps this understanding is the tipping point for me because, within seconds, I find myself climbing out of the window, car keys in pocket, and racing to Draco's house out in the suburbs.

"Pansy?" he asks with tired eyes, opening the front door wide enough so I can see his house is caught in darkness. Apparently, he was sleeping. "What's the matter?"

Not thinking, I barge past him, tears threatening already. How could I let this happen? I was emotionless, fuelled by parties and dressing delicately, but now I have somehow formed this inconceivably irrefutable idea in my head that Astoria and Draco are together, I have become mush. Absolute mush. There's no other word for it.

"I need to ask you something," I announce, shaking. "I'm sorry to butt in. You're probably busy." _What if she's here?_ "Actually, I ought to go."

He frowns, nods, and says, "Okay. What's going on?"

"It's about Astoria. I… Are you…" Jesus, the fucking words just won't come out. "Are you and Astoria fucking, or is it all in my head?"

Silence. Draco's mouth hangs open, beyond confused. I shouldn't have come here. I look crazy now, turning up, using this vulgar language to ask whether I'm sane or hallucinating. This was a terrible, horrible idea. Draco stares back at me, not saying a word, and it's fucking killing me. Why isn't he saying anything?

"Draco, please. Say something."

"Honestly, Pansy, I have no idea what to say. You look distressed, do you want to come in and sit down?" he asks, glancing behind him into the cavernous house. "I can make tea. Just about."

Heart pounding, nauseous, and certain that I want the ground to swallow me up, I follow him.

His home is plain, contradictory to the old Malfoy Manor charm which had been ostentatiously decorated back in the day. Having opted for the simpler life – one that was not in any regard akin to his parents – Draco went with simple curtains and blinds, small rooms, and calico wall-paint. I step into the living room behind him and take a seat on the couch there, cushions soft, walls too close.

The lights flicker above as Draco brings in two steaming cups of tea and sets them down onto the small coffee table in the middle of the room. I can hardly bring myself to look at him.

"I'm really gay," I blurt out, knowing that he's already aware of that fact. "Astoria and I…" The words are stuck in my throat, too hard to swallow, too difficult to say.

"You're together?" Draco shuffles backwards in his seat, holding the tea for warmth. "God, Pansy, I'm sorry."

"What are you sorry for?" I ask.

He swallows. "She didn't tell you we are engaged, I'm guessing?"

All the way down I go, fathoms below the surface of the earth, stomach unsettled, roaring headache, fiery blood coursing through my toxic veins. Every part of my body feels as though I'm entering the unknown and almost unfathomable realm of Hell. Draco just stares at me, searching for an answer that surely must be hiding in my eyes. The answer that says _no_ , and _how the fuck did this happen_ , and _why didn't she tell me_. I'm so embarrassed and furious with her.

"En... What?" I choke out.

"I understand how you're feeling," he attempts.

"You know nothing of how I feel." I shudder, hurting. "I need to leave." Yet, my feet won't move in any direction, let alone support any weight I might endeavour to put on them.

His face shows nothing by sympathy. That, let me say something look.

"Pansy…I do understand. We're not engaged because we're in love. It's about family – the pressures coming from both sides to get engaged, as has been expected of us since we were born. Surely, you understand that?" When I don't speak, he continues. "I know Astoria doesn't want me like that. And that's okay. We've come to an arrangement, however."

"An arrangement?"

"She can sleep with whoever she likes, as long as we are careful and maintain our relationship."

What the hell does that mean?" I ask, horrified.

Draco watches me, considering his words. "It means that, while we'll get married, she can continue with whatever other relations she is engaged with. She can still see you, when it doesn't get in way of our marriage and engagement. It's a condition we've discussed, and apparently not something she spoke to you about." He pauses. "I'm sorry Pansy. I'm guessing she didn't want to tell you in such a clinical way. She cares about you."

"The thing is Draco, I'm not sure she does." I can tell that my statement is unexpected, and yet he doesn't question it. I feel the need to explain myself, to prompt an understanding in both myself and in him. Because I don't understand, and I don't know how I can move on if I don't understand. "When we're together, she always brings drugs, and alcohol, and it's in a musty hotel somewhere. Somewhere out of the way of prying eyes, I guess?"

"If it makes you feel better, we haven't had sex."

"It doesn't."

We sit in silence for a couple of minutes, my panic throbbing, but my hysteria calmed somewhat. At least my mind wasn't telling me a complete lie, it was just the girl I was with who was telling me a lie. My tea is almost completely finished, just the dregs and sugar stuck to the bottom of the mug. That means my stay is almost over, unfortunately.

"It wasn't fair of her to not tell you what was going on," he interrupts my vapid thoughts. "It wasn't fair of her to do this to either of us. So, I do understand."

"You _knew_ you were engaged - you _knew_ what you were getting into. I feel like I've been lied to. Maybe I should have come out of my cage earlier, realised what was going on, and had the courage to do something about it. Move on, find someone else." I sigh heavily, setting down my mug and moving to stand. But then he interjects again with something that freezes my movement.

"I didn't know she was actually with other people. I thought it was all hypothetical."

"Looks like you got fooled too." And, honest, voice cracking, words tumbling over themselves, I admit, "I love her, Draco. Or at least I thought I did. She's so…"

"Perfect?" he laughs shortly. "Yeah, I know."

Suddenly, I realise the understanding between us. The way Draco has been talking about her, the slight sadness in his eyes, the tilting of his head in confusion at discovering mine and Astoria's relationship. He's in love with her. He hardly knows her, but he doesn't need to know her to understand that he's in love with her. And yet, he can't be with her as wholly as he would like.

Neither of us ever would.

And it's fucking heart-breaking.

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 **Thanks for reading!**


	42. Chapter 42: Galatea Merrythought

Tom Riddle is one of my brightest students, a brilliant young man - as gifted as Dumbledore. But there is something different about him. While Dumbledore was a guiding light for many around him, Riddle attracts a dark energy.

The first time I met him? It was so long ago I have almost forgotten. _Almost._

He was sat in the front row, absorbing the information I could offer. Enthralled in the words themselves. Incantations spilling forth from his lips, ones I hadn't heard in years.

He is obsessed, which makes him far beyond the most captivating student I have ever taught.

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 **Ravenclaw, HoH, Drabble, Galatea Merrythought, WC: 100**


	43. Chapter 43: Alastor Moody

**Written using the Alastor Moody prompt for the Houses Competition**

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Flashing lights burned into his dreams in green, red, and gold. The curses swam behind his eyes; death eaters, unfaithful companions turned to the other side, and the Dark Lord himself. Fear ripped through him in every waking and sleeping hour, the restless, piercing blue eye seeing all.

He was right to be anxious. Never fearful. Constant Vigilance was necessary.

A clattering woke him that night, something toppling over the bins outside. An intruder. It wouldn't be the first in the years following his retirement. Foolish, they were.

He stood slowly to contest them.

Everything went red, and then black.

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 **Ta!**


	44. Chapter 44: Alecto Carrow

**Written using the Alecto Carrow prompt for the Houses Competition**

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She was strong with the power of the Dark Lord behind her. Her and her brother, Amycus, were safer in Hogwarts – they were protected within the walls, unharmed by other teachers, and far from the catastrophes outside. She was dark eyed, and light haired, and she _belonged_.

Yes, it was unusual. But if the glove fit, she would wear it.

Not many had offered the task of supporting Severus Snape in the cursed school. Alecto knew she would do better to be with those on both sides of the war. She would either fall or fly, whichever side she took.

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 **Ta!**


	45. Chapter 45: The Games

**A Gift Fic for Beckintime, Ravenclaw Year 2 for her awesome work in Round Five!**

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"Ginny, duck now!" Harry shouts, turning to throw the spear at the oncoming monster. His girlfriend, the battle-worn and radiantly strong Ginny Weasley, moves out of the way just in time, hair flying in every direction. The beast is bigger this time, and they instantly know that there will be more of them. "Hermione, how many points are we on?" Translation: How many more of these bastard creatures do we have to kill?

"Seventy-five," Hermione calls back, finishing with a war cry and slash of her blade.

"Bloody hell!"

"Ron, now is not the time to waste energy swearing," Ginny scolds.

Around them, the air is thick with the stench of the beasts, bred for this game and this game only. The fourth round of the Centurion Games of the decade, in which nominees fight their way out of the cage. Each round, a new being of hell is released into the cage, and a strategy must be devised to score one thousand points. Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione know they are far from their target and losing strength fast, but none of them are the type to give in.

"This one is disgusting," Ron remarks breathlessly, choking on the putrid scent coming from the beast's mouth. It stands at least ten feet fall, covered in pustules that look just about ready to burst. Ron attempt a jabbing stab, which only causes a blister to rupture onto his face. He gags.

Hermione scowls in his direction, arcing her sword to decapitate a monkey-like rat.

Twelve more of them seem to manifest from the air itself.

"I don't know how much longer I can go," bellows Harry from his place on the dewy grass – a stupid place for a battle scene, he thought savagely.

"Don't you _dare_ say that Harry Potter!" Ginny roars back. "As always, whether clever or completely idiotic, we are _in this together_! No giving up!"

He glances in her direction. She's crazed with bravery and determination. And she's right. He could not let them down; giving up was an impossibility.

"Let's kill these bastards!"

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 **Ta!**


	46. Chapter 46: They Took Everything

**Gift Fic for TheCrownprincessBride for her awesome work as our Year 5 Ravenclaw player, Round Five!**

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Theo put his head in his hands, staring at the paper at his feet. Disgraced families on the front page, being thrown from their homes, grasping for anything more than air. Hoping for something that they could own, take with them, and still avoid Azkaban. The Dark Lord's effect had taken their status and their power, and this was nothing dissimilar in the Nott family. They were just as affected by the losses of the pureblood community.

His palms were shaking, so he hid them away. It was hard to not think about it.

He was the only one left.

All around him, the Aurors were seizing his possessions, everything he own – or rather, didn't own. His had father been convicted posthumously for being a Death Eater, having killed himself in the Battle of Hogwarts. He was receiving troubled letters from Draco, trying to send placating replies to just sit back and think about something else for a while. But it was so damn hard. The Dark Lord had stripped them of everything they had had, and Draco was talking about the possibility of his parents divorcing; it was sickening.

Everything was being removed from his life. Everything he thought had meant something. It was being sold to pay the charge equal to convicting his arsehole Death Eater father.

He couldn't help but think that if his mother was there, she would know what to say. She would have known exactly what to do, and how to make the situation even slightly better. She would have made the sun burn bright against the drizzly sky and everything would be okay.

But she wasn't there.

Theo was completely, utterly, alone.

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 **Ta!**


	47. Chapter 47: Blaise's Almost-Blind Date

**Gift Fic for the wonderful nottheonlyfangirl Ravenclaw Prefect 2 for her hard work in Round Five!**

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"Luna, Draco?" I curse down the phone. "Really? How was that ever going to be a good idea? That's like putting Lavender Brown and Crabbe together – it's never going to work!"

"Blaise, for Merlin's sake, you've been there five minutes." He sighs heavily. "Give her a chance."

I wipe a hand over my face, frustrated. My best friend, Draco Malfoy, has set _me_ up on a blind date with _Luna Lovegood_. Luna Lovegood, for Merlin's sake. Airy-fairy, ditsy, blonde, mad Looney Lovegood. What was he thinking? Now she's waiting outside, wearing a dress made from ribbon and sequins, a bottle-top headband, and a necklace adorned with a rabbit's foot. Probably about something weird that she's into. I cannot dare to imagine.

"What did your mother teach you when meeting a lady?" Draco asks.

"Urgh. She taught me to be polite and charming, no matter how repulsive they are."

"Strange but knowledgeable woman, your mother." He pauses. "Listen mate, just give her a chance, Blaise. I wouldn't have set you up if I didn't think you'd get along."

The door to the bathroom bangs open and a redheaded man walks in, reminding me far too much of the Weasley's for comfort. Reminding me of one particular Weasley I can't seem to shake. Ginny, the brave lioness I fell so ridiculously in love with that her decision to go back to Potter practically crushed me.

"For you, fine."

Whichever way I felt at the beginning of the evening, by the end of it I am utterly enthralled by Luna Lovegood. She has these incredible ideas about life and magical beings, and this way about her that oozes brilliance. Intelligent, beautiful, stunningly… Perfect.

By the end of the evening I find myself agreeing to journey to Switzerland with her to see the fresh-lily wompus wings. And I have no idea what they are, but I want to know more.

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 **Ta!**


	48. Chapter 48: Smoke-Filled Lungs

**Ravenclaw, Head of House, Themed, Prompt: Sirius Black, WC: 2026**

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 _Orion is the most prominent constellation in the sky – it is an intrinsic display of power, and it has certainly allowed my father to think that he was owed something because of it. He always liked to think that he could rule the house and my family, just as his namesake ruled the night. Orion Black liked to think that, because his name was written in the stars, it gave him the right to abuse any power bestowed upon him._

-0-

Darkness stretches out across the tiled kitchen floor, the singular, pale candle making my father's shadow so much broader and larger and all the more frightening. From the opening and closing of his spitting mouth, I know he is screaming at me, one fist raised, and the other pulling my hair to face him. My nose is bleeding, the pressure increasing, but I ignore it. I can't let him see that his fear-mongering advances are affecting me.

"You are as vile as they come, boy," he hisses, mouth quivering as spittle drops from his tongue. When I don't respond, he throws me from him, sliding into the far wall. I almost don't feel the crash, adrenaline forcing my continued numbness.

My father sinks onto his throne-like stool at the table, causing a harsh, scraping sound against the floor.

The pain is coming back immeasurably fast. I'm suddenly barely able to think past how much it all hurts and how many bruises I will have by tomorrow morning. That pricking, burning sensation behind my eyes is utterly ludicrous, and I'm trying desperately to push back the feeling. Already, the panic is there, constricting my lungs, forcing my thoughts, and churning my stomach. I can't let him see that weak part of myself. Not now, not ever.

Frustrated, hating him, hating myself, I stumble from the room. _Fuck him. Fuck them all._

I pass the sardonic, judging portraits of my family on my way to my bedroom, feet pounding hard and fast on the creaking stairs. Trying to put as much physical distance between me and the rest of the world as possible. Regulus hardly glances in my direction when we meet on the second landing. The perfect son. He fits in, destined to be better in the life designed for both of us. Destined to remain perfect throughout his entire sodding life.

Then there's me.

Same father. Same house. Same family. Except, I am the one with the shitty life.

I wipe the blood from my nose, practically kicking open my bedroom door and suddenly furious about absolutely everything. Why me? Why did i have to be born into this particular life - like some higher being is fucking laughing at me the whole fucking time? How is that fair? In this stupid family, never fitting in, and being punished for being different. My father is downstairs, relishing in his power, believing that if he continues to hurt me I will change and be the better son he obviously wants me to be. To him, there is nothing he can't get by bullying his way for it.

Fingers shaking, door closed, I reach for the top drawer of my bedside cabinet and the tiny, grey tin inside. Undetectable in between spare parchment scraps and chocolate frog cards collected over the years, it's hiding my stash of cigarettes. It opens easily from years of constant use. My trembling hands pull one from the metal and hold it to my lips. Zippo lighter ready, the butt burns and, after a few seconds, lights.

One long drag permits the tar and the nicotine to provide a different route for my thoughts. Together, they blur the words in my head for a second, then everything is much calmer. Air floods into the room from an open window, but the stench of the smoke still permeates into the ancient wallpaper. The green of it is a constant reminder that I'm _different_. Sirius Black, who doesn't belong in this family, and who isn't supposed to be in Gryffindor like his friends. The rest of the Blacks have all been Slytherins. Trust me to do something radical, to want friendship over ambition and material possessions. I'm not fuelled that way.

I don't want what every person in my family before me has wanted.

My father hates the smell of smoke. He doesn't approve of the yellowing fingernails and the greying of my teeth. Every time he tells me he doesn't like it, it only makes me want to smoke more, have more sex, stick more Muggle posters onto the walls, and run in whichever direction he is telling me not to go.

I want him to think that he has lost all ability to control me and shape me into whatever the fuck he wants. I want him to think that his words and his actions have absolutely no effect on me whatsoever. This makes him want to control me that much more, and I can go on hating him.

Each day of the following week drags slower than the one which precedes it, a monotonous loop I cannot seem to escape from. It's suffocating , stifling, and I'm drowning in the heat of the summer and its accompanying chilling loneliness. I spend hours, days, months, decades in my bedroom, it seems, staring at the dust and the smoke caught in the glowing sunlight . Time is filled with thinking - a third of it is about Hogwarts, half of it is on my escape, and all of it is involving Remus. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I wonder if he is thinking about me too. But even my most reliable fantasies about my wolfish friend cannot keep me company for long.

Instead of tricking myself that I'm not hungry, bored, alone, and chain smoking, I sleep.

There are no knocks on the door or calls for food, but I send a letter to James in the hope that he can help a brother out. Thankfully, he does. Unfortunately, the much-needed provisions arrive after three days of near-starvation. The only food in my room consists of stale sweets, a few half-eaten bowls of porridge, and whatever titbits are in my drawers.

Remus hasn't contacted me at all, and I know he must be busy with holiday homework and such. But it stings anyway. It makes me feel that little bit more alone, especially given that he's been more distant lately. I think he is growing less hopeful about our animagi transformation process every day. This will be the year, though, I'm confident.

Maybe he's still trying to protect us from the monster he thinks he is, and the monster we know he isn't He's convinced that he will never be in control of the wolf, and that it will always hold power over him.

Three weeks pass, the summer hot enough through my window to tan my pale skin. My mind manifests images of friends and Hogwarts, which satisfies for a while but only brings the quietness of my situation to a juddering reality. I can picture Remus perfectly, all polite, knowing smiles, freckles, and an amber kaleidoscope resting in his eyes. I can hear James' laugh as he tousles his hair and rolls up his shirt sleeves to be cool in the hot air. I can smell the odour of constant, sugary candy on Peter's skin, sticky fingers and hair bleached by the relentless sun.

But it's all in my head. My insane, lonely head, where I can leave the house freely and see my glorious friends, finally able to see my imaginings of the outside world come to life. Because this is the power my father has over me, pushing me to live this awful, lonely life, because he cannot accept that I am dissimilar from him.

 _Where the hell would I go if I didn't live here?_

I haven't expressed this thought aloud before, because it would get me nowhere. The fact is that I have to endure my time at Grimmauld Place, because there is nowhere else. But I just don't know how long I can continue this, year after year. An argument, a fight, a punishment, and the rest of the summer hiding away in furious, depressing solitary confinement.

The thought of doing that forever is unbearable.

He'll know that it bothers me, and that I hate it here more than can be imagined. Maybe he already does. Maybe it's why he does it.

I've never smoked so much and so frequently in my entire life, duplicating cigarettes daily. This last one is falling away into ember and ashes, so I retrieve another from the drawer, not quite ready to give up the choking warmth of it yet. All the time I am feeling off-balance, as though the world is spinning incomprehensibly fast, and I can't even figure out which leg to use to stand up on.

Throughout my life, things have been focused on power and variables. Our family status is something that is maintained and monitored, allowed to develop and not to diminish. There are variables that exist, however. One such variable is me. The Gryffindor. Lion amongst a cave of snakes, with no foreseeable way out. I couldn't control the Sorting Hat placing me in the "wrong" house, it's who I am. Perhaps the most infuriating thing of all: I cannot even control who I am, let alone allow my father to change me.

On the Thursday of my fourth week away from everyone, I wait for my family to migrate to the back of the house at midday. Then, quickly, silently, I crack open my window a little further and climb out. My limbs are weak and the cigarette hangs from my lips, but I'm out, and the air is so good. Crisp, salty, grainy.

I end up in the park somehow, five minutes from my house. The grass is dried-up, and the playground is abandoned by any children not wanting to risk burning in the heat of noon. Not caring about the sod and the soil and grass, I lay in the middle of the field. From here, the clouds are closer, the broad expanse of the sky completely mesmerising in my newfound and definitely short-term freedom. The cigarette burns on, smoke matching the pale clouds as it bursts from my lips.

Like eating or breathing, I don't remember starting to smoke. I don't remember where I picked it up from, or who around me has done it in my life to make me follow them. But I know why I continue to do it.

My father wants me to be like Regulus, the perfect son, so he tries to force me to be someone I am not - as much as I sometimes think that I would rather be green than red to just fit in. I'm trying to pay him back, make him believe that he has no power. And yet, this is untrue. This summer, and every summer, has been spent thinking over how I can be different, avoiding confrontation because of my inherent fear, and having slow, horrific panic attacks over extended periods of time.

To have some sort of constant is the most absolute form of control. As long as I smoke, I can have that. My hands can be busy; my brain can occupy itself there for a while, and one half of it doesn't have to wonder whether I will succumb to the power of my father, or whether I will grow further and further from my family, the house I grew up in, and the life I have lived.

I smoke for the control.

When I'm in the room or the house with him, it's like I am thrown back ten years into the past, and I can't see past that lonely, dark-haired boy, ostracised before he even knew what the word meant. I'm thrown back into my fear, and to my terror, and I worry that he will know of it.

Smoking means having some semblance of control, and therefore autonomy and power.

Something for my hands to do while I try to make my mind forget.

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 **Thank you for reading!**


	49. Chapter 49: She Said No

**Ravenclaw, HoH, Drabble, Prompt: [first line] He always wondered how one simple word could change so much, WC: 86**

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He always wondered how one simple word could change so much.

 _No._

Her voice crushed him - the tone of it, the word itself. It was as though she had dropped an anvil on his chest. Kneeling there, in the very public street, the idiot. Diamond ring between two fingers. Ginger hair restless in the wind, his smile faltered; it died on his lips and his heart broke.

 _Ronald, I... No. I can't._

She was running away from him now, her violet robes lost in the crowd.

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 **Ta!**


	50. Chapter 50: Hallucinogenic Dreams

**Ravenclaw, Head of House, Short, Prompt: "I miss moments like this more than anything.", WC: 2000**

 **AU. In a world where Fremione was a known thing due to the combination of book smarts and hilarious smarts. In a world where Fremione thought they were meant to be together, had promised themselves to each other, and not quite managed to fulfil their promise.**

 **0-0-0-0**

I ignore the series of sideways glances as I make my solitary way to the restricted section of the National Library. The disapproving looks are not for my destination, but for my unkempt appearance. Those around me must think my dressing atrocious, but it's battle armour for me. For the past few weeks, I have been awaiting the permission to go to the restricted section - for which I now have special dispensation - in my pyjamas, accompanied by endless cups of tea and vodka. Now, I wear my mother's old jeans and a button-down shirt, simply because they were close and comfortable.

Shelves seem to stretch on for days and days, containing everything the imagination could think up. Tomes after tomes of secrets, spells, and other dark magic. Only one of them is the book I am looking for. Nothing else matters.

My ballet flats clack against the wooden flooring of the library. Heart pounding faster as I get closer to the shelf. _Three hundred and forty, three hundred and forty one, three hundred and forty two._ This is the one. It doesn't look like much. A large book, bound by leather and dragon hide. Purple in colour, the pages yellowed by hundreds of years of use.

The potion I'm looking for is accompanied by a spell, certainly not an easy combination to come by. And most definitely not conventional.

0-0

 _"You're joking, right?" Malfoy demands, scowling at me from across the counter. "What odd, recreational use do you have for a - oh."_

 _It's as though he's remembered why I might want this particular potion halfway through whatever he was saying. I can see him chewing on his words, thinking over exactly what has been said between us this afternoon._

 _"Do you have it, or not?" I ask, twisting the promise ring on my finger and determined not to have a panic attack right here in front of the ex-bully. Draco sighs heavily, as if regretting his ability to live and breathe in this instance. "Please, you said that you would help. This will help."_

 _"Hermione, I didn't exactly think I would be helping by... I thought maybe I would cook you dinner, or make you tea several times. Maybe we'd talk about it." He looks down at the parchment between us, mentally checking things off a list for the potion he is currently making. "I really don't think this will help you."_

 _Already the tears are there, threatening to spill over as the panic fills my lungs like water. I'm drowning in it._

 _"Please," I manage. Just about._

 _Frustration, pity, conflict, and then, finally, resignation._

 _"I know this potion, and I know where you can find it. In the restricted section of the National Library - I borrowed it out of interest once. As a Potioneer, I have to recommend that you please don't try this. It's practically untested, and in your... state, the mixology..." he trails off._

 _"I have to try, Draco."_

 _All he can do is nod._

0-0

After the Wizarding War, the sides of good and bad began to blur again as Death Eaters and innocents merged into one being, some more complex than others. Some who were ardent supporters, others like Draco, who had been coerced. Harry vouched for them, including Malfoy and his mother.

I haven't really been involved with any of it.

My fingers trace the shelf numbers, then the rows, and _there it is._

The first thing I feel is excitement, a stark contrast to the many months stuck in incomprehensible grief. Thrill. This is what I have been looking for, and for so long. It's going to help me. I can overcome this horrible, compressing, suffocating feeling in my chest. Not only is the book large and beautiful, I know it's powerful and holds the answer to every one of my problems. I know it can help.

It hardly takes me seven minutes to find the potion, sign out the book, and run in the direction of home. By home, I mean my parents' house, to which they haven't returned yet. That's a matter for another time. When I arrive, Draco is standing on my doorstep, overstepping the boundaries of our budding politeness towards each other. I keep one hand on the book, the other pushing past him to open my front door. He doesn't stop looking - a look that is both disapproving and pitying at the same time.

"What in Merlin's name are you doing here, Malfoy?" I ask, allowing him inside the house as well.

"If you're going to fuck with your head, I'm at least going to make sure it doesn't kill you."

"A delightful sentiment." I raise an eyebrow.

"Granger, I am not going to sit idly by while you mix this and make a mess of it - especially in the state you are." It takes me a moment to realise he doesn't mean my seventies jeans and terrible hair. "So, I am going to mix it, then leave. Or at least sit in another room, I haven't decided yet."

"You are not staying."

"I don't think you'll be able to make that decision once you're in the hallucination."

That shuts me up.

Silent, furious, and hating him, we work together to make the potion.

For the following two hours, I hand him ingredients, read out the almost indecipherable text, carefully chop, dice, and cut. Draco doesn't talk to me other than to ask that I pass him the next item, and from this alone, I can see that he is angry with me. I'm angry with him too, but I am also desperate for this to work. And, as much as I hate to admit it, I need him. Candlelight stretches over his concentrating face. Why is he doing this for me?

"Stop staring at me, Granger," he quips. Swallowing thickly and pulling a vial from his robe pocket, he says "It's ready," and fills it very carefully. The liquid comes out a brilliant blue, shimmering and glittering.

"Thank you," I murmur, reaching out. But he pulls the vial away, looking me dead in the eyes.

"This is a one-time thing?" I nod, but think that I could use the potion again another time. "Good. Drink this portion only, nothing more. I'm going to sit in another room and let you... Say goodbye." Words are failing me already, how will I be able to speak when I see him? "When you wake up, I'll be here. I don't know how much time you will get, but I'll be here, regardless."

"I don't need you to -"

"I don't care what you _think_ you need."

With an almost annoyed flick of his wand, the remaining potion in the cauldron vanishes, much to my despair. He takes the book as well, before I can utter my protest, and leaves the room with a clicking shut of the door.

Door closed, vial between my shaking fingers, and Draco just rooms away, I suddenly feel embarrassed. I don't know what he will hear, or what he will see while I'm in the hallucination. Then again, surely he knows... He's seen me wallowing in sorrow for so long, unashamedly crying in the library, downing vodka in public, drifting away and dissociating from reality. Since Harry argued for Draco, he has somehow integrated himself into our lives. Not quite a friend, perhaps, but no longer an enemy. He's just been _there._

Working with Aurors, drinking in The Leaky Cauldron, shopping for books with me when I felt more like myself.

But none of that matters right now.

I down the liquid in one.

"Fred?"

My voice is hoarse, as though not having been used for many years instead of a few minutes. I'm completely overcome, shaking, breathing heavily, tears already pouring down my cheeks, staring at where he stands in the middle of the room. Never did I expect it to be so immediate and so _real_. But he's there, all red hair, cheeky grin, and stupidly looking around as though he's confused.

 _It's so real._

" _Hermione, what the hell am I doing here?_ " he asks, barking out a laugh. " _Isn't this your parents house. And I'm... Oh Merlin. I'm dead!_ "

"Don't say that, Fred." I move closer, wanting to reach out, to touch him. Halfway there, I remember what I am supposed to be doing. I am supposed to be saying goodbye, not hoping for more time than I can get. He moves towards me, as if commanded by some other force. "I had to see you."

He frowns. " _How is this possible?_ "

"It doesn't matter. I wanted... I _needed_ to say..." Pause. Breathe. I can't do it. I can't say it.

" _Oh, no, don't cry,_ " Fred laughs, moving still closer. The way he laughs, it's like the whole idea of being upset is ridiculous in itself and that I should simply stop being so silly. It does the wondrous magic of making me both burst into a smile and sob harder. Throat dry, choking on unspoken words, I cannot move. " _Hermione, look at me_."

I'm shocked by his sudden closeness, then horrified by the touch I feel on my arm. Feather-light, barely there, Fred's fingers on my arm, squeezing my hand, touching my face and brushing at my streaming eyes. It's not like a ghost, unfathomably cold, but real as it could be. Pressure, warmth, life. Merlin, what have I gotten myself into? I can feel him, smell him, and I can touch him too.

We stand there for what seems like decades, me staring back at him, and him calming my hysterics with a look that seems meant for only me. He isn't joking, and he isn't trying to get a rise out of me, he simply cares. I drink him in, as much of him as I can, hoping to preserve the memory just a little longer. He tells me a joke, I laugh, and then I cry.

"I miss moments like this more than anything," I tell him, sitting underneath the living room window with him after a short while. "You being here, being normal. When there isn't a war going on, and I don't have to think about a million different things. I can just think about you."

" _I'm not really here, Hermione_."

"I know."

He's fading. My heart races, veins threatening to explode. He's going to disappear, and there are thousands of things I wish I'd been saying to him all this time. How much I love him, how much I miss him, that I want to promise my life to him. I should have said something more meaningful and not even questioned that he might not disappear, because he will. He's disappearing now, and along with him my calm resolve.

" _Come on, you knew I wasn't going to stay forever_."

The now pale imitation of Fred Weasley squeezes my hand.

"A girl can dream," I utter, watching his eyes slowly lose their colour.

" _You can't dream of me forever, Hermione. Life is waiting for you_." He pauses, watching his own fingers start to vanish. " _You have to grab it by the hairy bollocks and steer the way to success. There are people all around you who love you, and who care so much about you. I'm not everything. I can't be_."

I shake my bushy hair, disagreeing vehemently.

" _See you, 'Mione_ ," he whispers, placing an evaporating kiss to my cheek. In seconds, his lips are gone, and so is the rest of him. " _But not too soon_."

"Goodbye."

As promised, Draco is there when I am ripped from the hallucination. Blankets, hot cocoa, and a sad smile I haven't seen on him before. I must look a mess, which explains his pity. Thankfully, he doesn't ask about my tears, or the words I can't be certain that he heard. I don't either.

Frankly, I don't want to know. Because, as hard and horrible and arduous as it is, moving forward is the only good direction right now.

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 **Thanks for reading! And multiple cookies to the delightful writers and betas that are Alixx and Niamh!**


	51. Chapter 51: New To Town

**The Houses Competition, Ravenclaw Head of House, Additional drabble, Prompt: Neighbour, WC: 500**

 **Draco decides to integrate himself into muggle society, settling in next door to the slightly cautious woman, Samantha Hopkins. At first she only suspects something is wrong, but soon finds that Draco is exactly what he seems - which is definitely a far cry from normal.**

 **0-0-0-0**

I pull aside the blinds, watching the new neighbour move in next door. He's tall, blonde, and I don't recognise him at all. Unusual, in such a small community, where everyone knows everyone and their dog. He's carrying just a few boxes from the trunk of an old, beaten up Ford Anglia, unassisted. It looks as though he has absolutely no connections, not here anyway.

Suddenly, three sharp raps on the door. It better be Mrs. Cowan with my meatloaf dish.

 _Crap._ It's him.

He waves a hand in greeting, looking completely awkward, but smiling anyway. Maybe it's my slightly misleading childhood, but I instantly feel that I don't trust him. It's possible that he just has an untrustworthy face. One raised eyebrow, wearing a crisp shirt and trousers, even though it's midday on a Saturday. Odd.

"Hi. I was told to introduce myself to the neighbours - my mother," he stumbles over his words, pausing. "Anyway. I'm Draco Malfoy."

"Interesting name, _Draco_?" I ask, wondering whether I'm pronouncing it the same. "Samantha Hopkins."

"Lovely," he comments. I squint back at him, trying to suss out whatever plan he think he's going to pull on me. Perhaps he's one of those suave robbers. One minute they're all quiff hair and fit bodies, the next you know they're stealing your stuff after they've pushed you into a van somewhere, kidnapping your mother, and laughing… "Are you okay?"

"Fine."

I close the door in his face. Can't be dealing with any drama.

0-0

 _Samantha Hopkins. My new neighbour. She's already suspicious. This is going to be more difficult than I imagined, integrating into muggle society in the hopes of salvaging my sanity._

0-0

On the second week of the mysterious man moving in, an owl flies right through an open window of his house, in broad daylight no less. To say I'm shocked is a vast understatement. The owl doesn't leave again for hours, and only then is it during the night.

Draco Malfoy doesn't seem to understand currency either, or the mailman. I think he's foreign. Are there places in the world where letters come by owl and mailmen are unheard of? Not as far as I know, but I haven't been everywhere. Or anywhere.

I think there's a strong possibility that he's a terrorist - part of some rogue organisation that uses owls instead of letters to communicate - and he's definitely hiding something in his house. Not once have I seen anyone go there. Of course, he might be a loner, but he might also be some crazy man on a kamikaze mission, and I can't lose my house. It's the only thing I own.

Halfway through the fifth week of him having moved here, I find the perfect opportunity. I slip over the fence, through his small and untended garden, into the house. What I find is completely unbelievable.

Purple steam rises from the black cauldron in the centre of the living room.

"What the hell is going on?" I mutter.

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 **Thanks for reading! Much love**


	52. Chapter 52: Paris or George Weasley

Ravenclaw, Year 1 stand in, themed, hotel key, wc: 2014

0-0-0-0

I turn over, light burning into my retinas a little too brightly, and the bed a little too uncomfortable. But that's what happens when living in the twin's inexpensive and ultimately undecorated flat above the shop. The curtains are thinner, and the beds are less comfortable, but the company is absolutely superb.

My gaze falls on Fred's wooden chest of drawers, which is - just like the rest of the flat - old and worn out. There are burning marks on one side, remnants from their experiments when the piece of furniture still had been standing in their room in the Burrow. The topmost drawer always creaks when it is opened, and I often try to convince Fred to fix it, but he won't. He loves this almost antique piece of wood with all its scratches and shortcomings. He knows the story to every single notch and burn. A lot of memories in this chest of drawers.

"Morning," Fred mumbles beside me, stretching one arm out into the oblivion, yawning, and letting it rest again on his bare chest. I watch his breathing, the slight twitching of his nose, eyes only just open, thick with sleep. His red hair glows coppery in the morning light that is slanting through the curtains.

Silence hangs between us, but not the awkward kind. The restful, peaceful kind of silence that only allows the warmth in the room to grow. "How did you sleep?"

"Mmf," I reply, face half-buried in cushion. "Too early to talk."

Suddenly, a resonating crash from outside the door, and clattering of pots and pans. George. I know what's coming next before he bangs open the door, disturbing the moment and my delightful sleep-in.

"MOOOOORNING LOVEBIRDS!" he shouts, and sings something utterly ludicrous about the blackbirds in the morning, and a sunshine yellow glow in the sky. I swear to Merlin, if he continues to do this, I will hurt him. "How are we all today? Well rested? Good! Glad to hear it," he babbles on. When I look up, glaring in the direction of the idiot whose appearances matches that of the man I love, I notice he is covered in glitter and ash. Something has clearly gone wrong, and we are about to be in the middle of it. "Sorry to disturb your peace - especially you Hermione, beauty sleep is so necessary - I just thought you should know that the apartment is exactly like me. Covered in black soot and glitter. And that maybe, you should cover your ears, should you want a restful day."

With those final words, he salutes and disappears from the room.

A burning rage fills me immediately. Completely unlike me, and undoubtedly ugly to behold. Face red, fists clenched. Furious, I turn to Fred. The point is, this is not the first time this has happened. George is a constant reminder that we don't live alone, and that we don't have time alone, and that we certainly do have the blessing that is solidarity from the craziness of the store. Everything is gloopy, glittering, sticky, salty, blue, red, or any colour of the rainbow. My clothes have been shrunk, enlarged, twisted, churned, made orange, and covered in sequins for pranks or experiments. Honestly, as lovely and charming as it may be, I am so sick of it.

"Are you going to do something?" I demand.

"Should I?" Fred asks in return, obviously bewildered.

"You are impossible."

"Are you on your period?"

His words make me even angrier. This has nothing to do with me but with his brother making a mess of everything he touches - way too early in the morning! But of course, he doesn't mind. He's just the same, after all. "Just shut up," I snap.

I fling back the covers of the bed, suddenly too warm. The curtains are annoying me as well, so those are opened. What's the point of trying to recover a day that's completely wasted. No point, no point at all. Fred just stares at me as I throw myself around the room, furious that I'm so furious with everything.

"Hermione -" he calls after me, but I'm already slamming the door to the bathroom and pulling on clothes just so I can escape. This apartment is far too crowded, and there are only three people. George seems to take up the room of about fifteen thousand house guests, sometimes. It's claustrophobic. "Hermione, come on, open the door. What's your problem?"

"My problem, Fred," I bite back, "is that we are denied every opportunity to just be. We never have any time to ourselves. It's impossible to be together if we're constantly looking out for false doors… I don't know. I can't think right now."

Fight or flight mode is engaged. I can't do both. My chest feels too tight, and I can't breathe. It's going to have to be flight. I only need to get out.

My heart is pounding hard. The door practically bursts from its hinges in my haste to get away, forcing Fred back from it. He doesn't say a word, shocked. I feel as though my hair is flying in every direction and that I must look positively insane.

"I'm going to stay at my parents house for a couple days," I tell him. I direct my wand to the wardrobe. "Pack."

Bag in hand, sweeping hair from my face, I storm through the apartment. Tears threaten at the corners of my eyes, from frustration more than anything - because maybe Fred should be leaving with me, and we should be living our lives outside of his brother. Apparently, that would be too grown up for him.

Three days pass, and nothing. Three days of thinking I should have stayed there, endured the loud noises, the banterous arguing, and the laughter. Three days of thinking I should have just asked George to be more considerate, rather than leaving in my ridiculous, towering rage. Maybe I should even have apologised? I don't know. Maybe I'm not quite there yet.

I miss Fred.

"Yeah, you miss him because you love him, you dunce," I mutter into the suffocating silence of my parents' house. They were gone for the weekend, all waving and smiles and floral shirts. I didn't tell them that they looked like the world's silliest tourists. My mother was pleased to be going away. My father was pleased that she was pleased. It's all a strange situation; but they're happy, so who am I to judge.

Maybe that's the approach I should have taken with George. But don't I deserve to be happy as well?

Three loud cracking knocks on the front door disturb my contemplative peace.

"Hermione, come on, it's been months!" Fred calls from the other side, his voice muffled by the wood and plastic obstruction. He likes to exaggerate. "Years even - I haven't seen you since the dark ages!" I stay silent, hoping, almost, that he will take a step back and leave me alone for a little while longer. "Granger, I have a surprise for you - don't leave me hanging like this! It's a good one, trust me. And it's not like last time, I haven't shoved a snake inside a tuna can. Nothing weird. Muggle, normal, happy surprise. I promise!"

Gingerly, untrusting, I slide back the catch on the door, unaware my feet had been taking me closer to his voice.

"Does it help if I admit to being an idiot?" Pause. "No? Okay. I'll just… Okay." His voice trails off. Falling for his trick, and knowing that I am, I haul open the door with bleary eyes and a stubborn frown adorned to my features. "Ha! You are there!" he exclaims.

"Of course I'm here, you dolt, what do you want?" I ask quickly, drinking him in. He looks tired, but nothing I haven't seen before. The tiredness that comes with an inventor who primarily likes to invent at 2am.

A broad, almost smug smile splits his face. "I have plane tickets." His chest literally seems to swell at his words, and although I was resolved to stay firm and unwavering, something inside of me melts.

Excitement. Thrilling excitement rushes through me. I don't let it show on my face though, concerned he will think he's won me with those simple words. Though I love him, I definitely do not think that I will allow him to think he's forgiven. Plus, it's not exactly his fault either. I fully blame George for not knowing what boundaries are.

"They're for Paris," Fred teases, grinning.

I cross my arms in front of my chest, trying to look threatening. "Don't kid with me, Fred Weasley."

"I'm not," he insists. He gives me those irresistible puppy dog eyes. "Heck, I even booked a hotel. Spent time picking one out - months, decades, millenia. Maybe we could get away from all the madness, from family -"

"Especially family," I interject. Fred laughs. Then his face settles into something easier, something calm. And I know that he's being serious, that maybe I don't need to worry about pranks, or having nerve around every corner, or innumerable odd tricks he or his brother could play on me.

"I know that things have been a little… difficult lately. But I want you to know that you're such a wonderful and huge part of my life, I don't want to let go of that. Not yet. Not ever, if you'll have me." And, as if - and certainly - by magic, he whips a three foot bouquet from behind his back. "Got some water I can put these in?"

I sigh heavily, then grin. Suddenly, I'm very glad he came, and all the anger I had tried to hold onto vanished. "Come in then, you plank." And, as I turn my back to him, pure, unadulterated happiness bubbles up inside me.

0-0

Exactly one week later, Fred is boarding a plane for the first time, and I am in my absolute element. My parents took me abroad a few times before and throughout Hogwarts, so I am not unaware of the jolting sensation of the plane pulling upwards into the sky. Nor am I unfamiliar with the screaming children, the hot, damp smell of airplane food, and the churning turbulence that accompanies us.

Paris is stunningly beautiful, even from the sky. Fred points out everything he recognises - the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe (though he pronounces this in such a way that makes me think he knows nothing more than how to spell it). I smile the whole way there, so beyond happy that I can hardly think.

When we arrive at the airport, the wind scorches our backs, sun blinding in the broad daylight sky. I can't help but feel that this is the most spectacular, horrendous, wonderful holiday I will ever have. Fred at my side, already with a thousand times more freckles than yesterday. Being here, out of the way of inventions and the madness that is home, is like a breath of fresh air.

Fred holds my hand, though I know I'm sweating, all the way to the hotel, through the brief but mesmerising conversation with the receptionist, and receiving the hotel key to our room for the next week and a half. It acts as the gateway to our wonderful and delightful vacation of freedom. It may seem small and insignificant, this key - tiny, gold, and rusted from years of use and disrepair - but it's most definitely the only third wheel I need in this relationship.

The view is expansive and glorious before us. Paris, a most excellent city.

I revel in the daylight for what feels like years. I swear this is the only place in the world where the morning sunshine is tempting, almost playful, luring you to sit down in one of the little cafés at the street corners to enjoy a strong coffee and croissant. Freedom. Paradise. Utter bliss. I could not imagine being anywhere better, not with anyone better. Here, right now, with Fred Weasley in our small bubble of wonderment, is exactly where I want to be.

I certainly could not imagine it any other way.

Maybe I can live with George, if I can be allowed this level of -

"Hermione?" Fred asks into the silence. I nod, quietened by happiness. "Everything alright?"

"Absolutely."

0-0-0-0


	53. Chapter 53: Violet In A Graveyard

**House: Ravenclaw (HoH) Bonus Round Two!** **Theme: Spring, WC: 800**

 **Prompts used (3), [pairing] Lucius Malfoy and Luna Lovegood, [pet] Fluffy, [song] In My Daughter's Eyes - Martina McBride,**

 **Sooo... AU, for sure. Draco and Luna are married, hence she's referenced as Luna Malfoy in this piece. With regards to the song prompt, only certain lines were used from the song. Many thanks!**

 **0-0-0-0**

Lucius was not senile, despite his old age and his short term in Azkaban for his Wizarding War crimes. His hair was silver, turned golden in the pale April sunlight beating down on the group. His hands still clutched that serpent-topped cane, but he'd had it extended to give him more support, occasionally unsteady on his feet. Yet, now he was frozen, as Draco's body was lowered down into the chasm of soil. _Ashes to ashes, dust to dust._

It was a strange situation, he thought. His son had died suddenly, just over a week ago - a tumour on the brain, unnoticed by doctors - in amidst the newness of Spring. Nature's liveliest time, and Draco Malfoy was not there to enjoy it. Flowers were sprouting from thickets of lush grass, glittering dew and raindrops adorning their petals. Not only was the flora blossoming, but Draco had been gifted a child of his own in the last two months. A beautiful baby girl, who barely understood her senses, let alone the concept of death there in the graveyard.

"Do you want to hold her?" asked the short woman beside him. Lucius shook his head curtly. "I know you keep looking at her, Lucius." As if she had heard them talking, the baby's eyes quivered and her mouth opened a fraction. "I need to feed Fluffy, anyway. It would be helpful if you _could_ hold her."

"Luna, I don't understand why you brought that ridiculous dog to the funeral," he snapped, but took the child with kindly eyes. He wondered whether she would grow up to be a Slytherin, like her father, or a Ravenclaw, like her mother. Or whether she would be something different entirely.

"I inherited him from Hagrid. Draco loved Fluffy, Lucius, and you know that. I think we're past the petty commentary."

"He loved the dog because he loved you," Lucius muttered in return. Luna laughed lightly, then rummaged inside her floral messenger bag in search of some food for the monstrous dog sitting at the graveside. It was a wonder there was room enough in her bag for food to feed all three heads.

Lucius looked away from the hulking hound and down at the child in his arms, her skin matching the pale colour of the cherry blossoms in the trees surrounding them. She was fully awake now, staring up at him with interest, listening.

The thought clicked in his head almost instantly. _She wants her father._ It made irrefutable sense. The Malfoy duo shared similar appearances, so the girl was understandably confused. She was expecting Draco after all.

Draco Malfoy had been brought up to think himself superior for his blood status. He had been pushed towards those same beliefs of every Malfoy, that status was everything to do with whose family you were from, never given a choice in the matter. He was afraid of doing something to jeopardize his family. During the second Wizarding War, however, he felt no such fear. There was a time for him to show his own colours, fighting to protect the light – strong, brave, a hero. Lucius didn't know whether he could reform to be half the man his son had become.

But now there was this new life between them – between Lucius and the grave - an archetype of innocence.

His heart smiled, as though it had teeth, as she looked up at him. How cruel it was that this baby would not grow into loving her father, but only grow into his absence and miss something she knew nothing of. She only knew his voice, the laughing and singing he had expelled at a kick against Luna's protrusive stomach.

"It's funny," Luna interrupted his thoughts. "To her, she will not know the pain and the misery, only that we felt it. The world is at peace and will have always been that way for her."

"I suppose," he responded absently, glancing over at her, Luna Malfoy. She had dressed white for the day, though he had forgotten her reasoning. "Violet will grow up to be big and strong and brave, just like her parents." As if listening for her own name, Violet wrapped a tiny hand around her grandfather's forefinger. His heart fluttered.

"I thought that maybe she was sent to rescue me," Luna mused. "With all the loss – Draco's mother, my father – I don't know what I would have done without him. If it hadn't had been for her, I'd be lost."

Lucius nodded. His heart, his mind, his entire body was too tired and heavy to operate correctly at that moment. The crushing sensation of loss made him want to give up. There with Luna and Violet, he realised; life was hard and unforgiving, but giving up was not an option.

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	54. Chapter 54: He Who Must Not Know Love

**Houses Competition, Head of House for Ravenclaw, Drabble, Prompt: He had a look in his eyes that made everyone want to run., WC: 130**

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Tom Riddle was the boy I loved long ago, years before he changed his name to something fearing of Death. He used to have an inexplicable charm about him, something in his eyes that anyone might have fallen for.

It was different after our fourth year. He had changed much over the summer. He had a look in his eyes that made everyone want to run.

It was power, hunger, and fury that burned within. _No, Avery, I'm not coming to Slughorn's tonight_ , he told me. That was the night I knew I had lost the parts of him I adored. I had lost him, in all of his suspected innocence and brilliance.

I never stopped loving Tom Riddle, but I could never love the man that he became: Voldemort.

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	55. Chapter 55: Our Family

**A Gift Fic for the darling Celestia0909 for her hard work in Ravenclaw, round seven!**

 **Molly and Arthur dealing with a miscarriage.**

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"Molly, dear, is everything alright?" Arthur probes, sitting down on the bed beside me. I feel like I haven't moved in days, holding onto my stomach. My heart feels ridiculously heavy, but my body light, without the weight of the baby inside me. "I know, silly question. It's not alright. But is there anything I can do?"

I shake my head. I can't say anything just yet.

"Do you want to see the kids?"

"I'm not sure," I murmur, fingers clenching around the cotton of my shirt.

"Bill seems to be taller every day, you know." Arthur frowns at my lack of response. I feel like it's been weeks, months, since I've seen my children. Bill, Charlie, Percy. The three of them, like glowing orbs of positivity and life in my time. Ginger reincarnations of myself and Arthur, the love of my life.

But there's something missing. The new baby.

The new baby that died within me, where it was supposed to be protected.

"I just wish I'd been able to save him…" I say into our renewed silence.

Arthur sighs softly, as though I make him sad. "I know, Molly. We can't think like that forever, though. The only thing we can do is to try and do is to help our boys grow big and strong." He takes my hand, and a little more warmth enters my chest. "It's heart-breaking, I know. I loved that child, just as much as I love all of our children."

His compassion and his empathy are extraordinarily wonderful. Slowly, uncertainly, I begin to feel just a little less empty on the inside. The sheets are clean, my body is empty, but I know that my life is far from incomplete. With my husband, and with my children on our side.

Everything will be okay.

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	56. Chapter 56: Weasley's Broken Sonata

**A Gift Fic for the darling Nottheonlyfangirl for her hard work in Ravenclaw, round seven!**

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Blaise was angry. Angrier than he had been in his entire life. Except, he wasn't angry about his family – his mother, the disappearances of his father – and he wasn't angry about his friends – their betrayal – and he certainly wasn't angry about anything to do with school except _her_.

The red-haired wonder Weasley girl had him wrapped up in knots. And he couldn't do anything about it.

Thus, he was sitting at the piano, waiting for his feelings to produce something other than the horrible, aching staccato that filled the room at present. He tried to pour his emotions into the music, but it wasn't at all how he imagined – which was exactly the situation with Ginny Weasley.

He loved her, more than he had loved anyone or anything in his life. More, perhaps, than he loved music. She was this beautiful orb of beauty. So sarcastic, and witty.

But there was the problem. He loved her, and he wanted things to be perfect and free-flowing, and musical. Yet, that wasn't how life turned out. She was supposed to be with Harry Potter – 'wonder boy' as Draco called him – and that was how life had turned out for Blaise Zabini.

His heart was broken, and the chords were broken too.

While she was meant for Harry Potter, Blaise's heart would always be crying out for her.

And the music would never be the same again.

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	57. Chapter 57: Almost Dead

**A Gift Fic for the darling TheCrownprincess l for her hard work in Ravenclaw, round seven!**

 **Hermione is almost hit by a car. Almost.**

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Arnold Harrington is a pathetic, idiotic arsehole, who deserves nothing less than a hearty punch to the groins. My boss, Mr Harrington, is a sexist. Leering at everyone in the office, looking for his next piece of ass.

God, he makes me feel so damn sick.

I step out of the office building, fury raging through my veins, burning up in the hot, sunlit air. A sudden gust of wind is a welcome distraction. The road is hardly populated. It's Christmas Day, so who the hell else is working in the city? No one, I tell you. Absolutely fucking no –

A screech of wheels, churning of pavement under car, a shout.

" _Get out of the road_!"

Someone attacks me from sideways on, their body slamming into my own and dragging me from the danger of the crossing. Seconds later, a car is racing down the main street, where I had been not a moment before. Pain fractures down my limbs. Hot blood trickles from a gash in my forehead. My hands are grazed. And, yet… My mind is completely blank.

"Were you trying to get hit by a car?" he asks, hands either side of my face, his blonde hair falling in front of his eyes. _Damn, he's pretty._ "I mean, seriously. No sense of self-preservation?"

I just about manage a quietly spoken, "thank you", before trying to sit up. But he appears to be lying across me. Grey eyes staring back into mine, intense, concerned, apologetic. "You saved my life," I say, ever the only-one-stating-the-fucking-obvious.

"You're welcome," he grins. "Happy Christmas."

He takes my hand then and pulls me up with him.

"I'm Draco. Draco Malfoy."

"Hermione Granger," I murmur, a little star-struck. "Pleasure to meet you Draco, and you know to have my life saved by you." I laugh nervously, but he doesn't look weirded out. He smiles right back at me.

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	58. Chapter 58: Something Is Wrong

**Ravenclaw HoH, Short 1, prompt: "I never did get around to saying thank you, did I?", WC: 694**

 **Fred wakes up, saved by Hermione in the War. But something is wrong. AU.**

 **Flashbacks in italics.**

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Day one.

Uncomfortable. Hungry. Confused. Mostly hungry. The feeling is only amplified by the warm scent of bacon hanging in the air around me. It must be breakfast. Slowly, my eyes flicker open, gazing over a sunlit room of which I can only see the ceiling. So I'm lying down.

"Fred?" a voice asks.

A shattering of glass, and suddenly the flashback bursts across my vision like an exploding nightmare.

 _Shouts fill the hallway, calls for help, and screams of agony. I whip around quickly, tracing the black cloak of the Death Eater and punctuating a breath with a curse. He deflects. Damn. I send another in his direction, getting him in the back. Percy is laughing, for the first time in a long time and, strangely, I can hear it perfectly above the cacophonous -_

"You're awake." George stops the vision from continuing, bringing me almost jarringly back to the present. I find myself nodding, sitting up, not wanting to sink back into a sleep that's clearly not going to be restful for some time. "How are you feeling, Freddie?"

"Fine," I murmur. "What happened, George?"

"You were hurt in the battle. You've been out of it ever since," he tells me, repairing the mug he broke seconds ago. "Hey, no, don't get up, you need to rest!"

"I'll rest when I'm dead," I laugh.

Except, at my attempting to stand, things go sideways and I'm suddenly lying on the floor again, a pounding forehead furiously trying to take me away from reality.

Day six.

 _A strong force slams into me, all frizzy hair and dark brown eyes that catch in the light of the curse sailing over our heads. I can't hear whether she's saying anything, but that doesn't matter. She's saving my life. All around us, bricks break away from a castle wall, and tumble down like rain. I could have died. I would have died._

"Hermione…"

I wake to my own words falling from my lips. I'd been dreaming about Hermione, only I'm sure it wasn't a dream at all. It was another memory, leaving me sweaty and heart racing. A flashback, drawing me right back into the throes of the battle.

For a second I believe I'm in the hospital bed, but quickly remember that George and I are back in the flat as of yesterday. Thank Merlin for that.

With barely a moment of hesitation, I'm flipping back the duvet covers and throwing on jeans and a t-shirt. George shouts after me, but I'm already running to the door and apparating home to the Burrow.

"Fred, everything alright, mate?" Bill asks, completely nonchalant at the sink, clearly washing away breakfast.

"Hermione," is the single word I can manage, panting. Anxiety and determination has me out of breath.

Bill frowns. Something is wrong.

"Oh man, I'm guessing no one thought to tell you." My older brother wipes a hand over his face. "Just a lack of time - Fred, I'm really sorry, but she died."

Day twenty-five.

I stare out at the scene before me. Our little memorial for her, before the one later on for the rest of the Wizarding World. She's a war hero, regardless of the fact that she didn't survive it.

 _She's not smiling at me, concentrated on parrying the falling stone. I'm smiling at her, though, not caring whether she sees it or not._

The flashbacks - or attacks, as George calls them - haven't stopped. I'm not sure that they ever will, and I'm not sure that I want them to. They're a bittersweet reminder of her, Hermione Granger, who saved my life at the cost to her own. Of course, I know my survival and her death aren't directly linked but… Still.

My thought was that, in seeing her, I would get some closure, and the memories would stop attacking me.

Here we are, though.

It's George I turn to, when we all start to head inside out of the too-bright sunshine;

"I never did get around to saying thank you, did I?"

This thought having finally been spoken out loud, I sigh, and prepare to live with the unsettling knowledge that she isn't here too.

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	59. Chapter 59: For The Time Turner

**Ravenclaw HoH, Short 2, prompt: "Literally everything about this is illegal.", WC: 627**

 **Next-Generation. Albus and Scorpius are going to steal an illegal Time Turner from Harry's office.**

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"Albus, remind me why we're doing this again?" Scorpius asks, the familiar quaking fear in his half-laughing voice. I know that he's brave enough, and strong enough to do this, but none of this stops his nervousness. "Because I wasn't especially comfortable with this plan from the start – I mean, leaving _school_! – but now it's much more real. We're here, aren't we? We really are going to break into the Ministry."

"Yep," I murmur, thinking through the steps of our heist.

Make way to the Ministry. Check. Drink polyjuice potion. Got bottles at the ready. Pretend to be Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. Then we have to get the Time Turner and get out.

Scorpius stares at the vial in my hand, as I'm holding it out to him. There's a second of hesitation, before he takes it from me. He's more agitated than usual, which is understandable. We clink our glasses. But before we can down them together, Scorpius tells me,

"Literally everything about this is illegal."

"We're Slytherin's, it's practically expected." I grin at him. "Plus, this is important."

He nods, as though convincing himself.

Together we drink.

The sensation is the strangest I have ever felt – even more peculiar than flying. A tingling starts in my toes, then my ears, and finally my forehead. Everything is elongating and stretching and changing. Freckles sprout along my pale arms, and I know my hair must be the bright orange of Uncle Ron. Meanwhile, Scorpius has transformed into my father.

It's odd to see someone masquerading as him. Especially Scorpius, who always looks as though he's on the brink of running away. Harry Potter didn't ever look so unconfident.

"Have you got the robes, Scorp?" I ask, in Ron's marginally squeakier voice. Albeit reluctantly, Scorpius pulls out an enormous striped jumper for me, and a huge navy Auror cloak for himself. "This is very strange. You look like my dad."

"You look like _Ron Weasley_. Beyond exciting, yes. Terrifying, yes. But it's like I'm _meeting him_!" Scorpius squeals. It is the oddest thing I have ever witnessed my father do.

I smile, amused by my good friend. "Don't get your robes in a twist. We need to get inside now. Act superior – no, don't do that, you look like a prat. Better." Scorpius is halfway to rolling his eyes when the door just feet away from us bangs open and a Ministry Official steps out. Here we go.

"Yes, yes, Albus is always a bit of a nightmare at home," Scorpius says loudly, ignoring my flaring scowl. I suppose he's just in character, but it's still awful to hear from his lips. "I've never been _unproud_ of him. But there's a certain line, you know?"

"Yeah, I get you mate," I reply, then hiss when we're in the clear, "Was that necessary?"

Scorpius shrugs. "I've got no idea what your dad is like at work." He pauses. "Would you prefer if we walked in silence?"

"No, let's just keep going. Talk about the joke shop or something." Then I say louder, "We've got new stock at the moment your James might be interested in."

No one stares in our direction, which is a blessing. I don't know where my father is for the day, but, apparently, it's commonplace for him to wander around with his best friend, chatting about anything that comes to mind. Scorpius looks about ready to burst with excitement and nervousness when we reach the Head of Auror office where my dad usually resides.

"Go in, get the Time Turner, get out," he mutters to himself. "Go in, get the _illegal_ Time Turner, get out. We can do this, Albus."

I clap him on the shoulder.

"Of course we can."

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	60. Chapter 60: Deserving Of Forgiveness

**Ravenclaw HoH, Themed, prompt: "Let's find out exactly how deep your betrayal runs.", WC: 2900**

 **AU. During the war, Fred disappeared. He was presumed dead, but rumours surfaced that he was alive and held captive by Death Eaters. Hermione was sent to retrieve him, with assistance of Aurors. The mission goes south, and they discover Fred is not what they thought.**

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 _Get out!_

 _I'm out like a light._

Brightness flickers behind my vision, which means I'm waking up. The floor is cold and the air is damp. _Where the hell am I?_ Slowly, uncertainly, I sit up, blinking in the cool glow of the lamp. A jacket of some sort falls from my chest. I recognise the warm scent as Ron's and try to piece together what has happened for me to end up here, in this situation.

The last thing I remember… A flash of red hair, a number - 243, and the words that have hung in my head, " _get out_."

My mission was to find Fred Weasley. There was chatter that the remaining Death Eaters were going to enact some sort of plan, and that, somehow, Fred was involved. I was supposed to extract him before anything could happen. I'd arrived at the place he was being held hostage – Halfway Hotel, room 243 – but it wasn't at all what I had expected. He'd been standing, waiting for something – instruction maybe - wand raised, mimicking the Death Eaters as I crashed open the door.

Why though? _Why?_

Three sharp raps sound on a door I hadn't noticed, followed by a voice bursting my bubble of silence.

"Miss Granger, are you awake?"

"Depends," I respond. "Who is it?"

"Robert, Mission Coordinator. I'm coming in," he announces, appearing to unlock the door. Why I am locked in a room, I have no idea. Surely, I haven't become magically untrustworthy overnight? I was following instructions. Instructions given to me by Robert, no less, who organises our force against vigilante Death Eaters. The force is for those who aren't fully-trained Aurors, but still want to help. People like me.

"What's going on?" I demand, moving to stand up, picking up Ron's jacket with me. "Where am I, and why?"

"Basement of a safe house, fifty miles outside York. Weasley put you here two days ago. We were worried about you – that you might have been so shocked – by the events – but you're fine, so it's fine." He pauses, and I know he's stalling. We would normally be in a safe house, but… Nothing feels quite right. He's skipping on information. "There's something you ought to know."

"Tell me."

"Fred Weasley is upstairs. We've been trying to understand what was going on back at Halfway Hotel, but he only wants to speak to you. Do you have history with him?"

"Of a sort."

My mind flashes back to a time near-forgotten. Almost six years ago now, glittering lakes of Scotland stretching before us, warm summers and cool springs. Stolen moments together, away from the preparations of war – away from those who would mention it being beyond our duty to the cause. The Order would not have been favourable about any new relationships.

But then he was taken in the throes of the battle, while we were surrounded by a cacophony of noise and bright lights. I didn't see him being whipped out of sight. When it was all over, and dawn was striking the sky, he didn't turn up. Harry had pulled out his map, but Fred wasn't anywhere to be seen. _And he never returned_. We thought he was dead until about a year ago.

"What sort? Professional?"

"Does it matter?" I snap, offended by his prying. "So, he wants to speak to me?"

"And you alone."

 _Why, though?_ That is the key question, with the answer resting just out of reach. Why would Fred want to speak to _only_ me? Does that mean he's not innocent? Merlin. Every question I ask seems to unlock about a hundred more. How the hell could Fred Weasley suddenly be in our captivity? Because that's what this is, right? We've surely taken him as a hostage of sorts, trying to understand why he would possibly side with Death Eaters. Because he had looked as though he was ready to fight with them, and not at all like he was their bait or bargaining chip.

I glance down at the jacket in my twisting, anxious hands.

"Where's Ron?"

"Back with his Auror segment up North. He only came at special request." Another question rises in my mind, but I push it down. There are more important things to wonder than whether Ronald Weasley came here for me, or for his brother. As much as I love Ron, I don't see him as emphatically romantic. He's all courage and bravery, and life is about family and trust. Ron and I didn't bother trying to make things work romantically – and my heart was set on someone else, anyway. He joined the Auror program, and I went back to Hogwarts in hopes of moving higher up in the Ministry. A resurgence in vigilante groups and street chatter brought me to Robert. "I told him before you even went in that things might have gone sour. I just didn't expect…"

"None of us did," I assure him. Wiping a hand over my face, I set Ron's jacket down resolutely, attempting to mentally prepare myself for whatever is coming. "Alright, show me where he is."

Fred is sitting in the middle of the living room, red head dipped down and facing the threadbare carpet. He's the smattering of colour in a world that has been grey and black for a while. But I know this conversation isn't going to be easy, because he wanted to speak to me. Only to me. Why would he do that if he were innocent? God, this is really screwing with my head.

At the sound of my footsteps, he twitches ever so slightly. An acknowledgement of my presence, or perhaps something he picked up being surrounded by Death Eaters. Robert hangs back by the door for a second. Unwillingly, hating myself, hating the situation, I feel fear rear its ugly head. I take a step into the room, not quite sure what to say. The floorboard creaks, and Fred moves again. Closer, I see that his shoulders are shaking, shivering, as though he is cold. Around me, I notice other volunteers raising their wands. Like there is something to fear in Fred Weasley. Ludicrous, it seems. Yet, I don't doubt that there could be...

Rain streams down onto the window panes, making no sound. Everything is drenched in silence.

"I only want to speak to her."

Surprise hits me like a crashing wave. He sounds like Fred. I'm not entirely sure what I expected – whether he would bitter to match the salty air, or silent like the atmosphere.

"Fred, it _is_ me," I utter, feeling almost intrusive to the quiet, taking another step. Closer, I see his hands are resting easily on the arms of the kitchen chair someone has dragged through. Without making a sound, I conjure another chair and set it opposite him on the carpet, in the middle of the room. Fred doesn't say a word in response. "Okay, everyone else out."

They leave, wary.

Five long seconds.

"You want to tell me what this is about?" I demand. "The secrecy, you with the Death Eaters? What's going on, Fred? Merlin. Please, explain."

"It's good to see you."

"I don't _care_." My voice breaks, and I hate myself for it. "Tell me everything."

He seems to deflate before me. The whole exchange seems to have been stupidly emotional over a very short amount of time, and I wonder how the rest of this talk is going to go. Fred moves, slowly, not getting up, but bringing his hands over his face in frustration. I know that look. I may be asking for answers, but I think that, perhaps, he doesn't have the answers we would have been expecting.

"What do you want to know?" he asks.

"Are you a Death Eater?"

The question bursts from my lips, and I realise how desperate I am to know of his betrayal. Whether it was true – whether I could count on him, if it came to it. Desperate to find out really what had gone on to make him be around them, in that room, when I had thought I was _rescuing_ him.

"Is there not something easier you could ask?" he laughs. I glare. "I know - not funny. It's just one of the more complicated questions." I stare back at him, beyond confused. _How can that be a difficult question?_

"Fine." I think for a second. "Would you have killed me, if the Aurors hadn't have intervened?"

"Easy. No."

"We lost you at the battle. Everyone thought you had died. Where did you go?"

Fred leans back in his seat. Obviously, this question is a difficult one as well, otherwise he would have answered just as instantly as before. Instead, he contemplates his response. It's a horrible feeling, thinking that he is censoring the words he has to say to me. It's worse to wonder _why_ he has to censor them. "I think they thought I would be a good bargaining chip. Someone took me – maybe Johnny, or Amelia." My heart clenches at the familiarity he has with the names, as though they have since become friends. "They brought me out to the country, to a weird old hideout. There were Death Eaters everywhere, as if waiting for the Dark Lord's second wave of destruction." He smiles. "They didn't expect him to die."

"What happened when he did die? When they heard he had been defeated?"

"It's a bit of a blur. I'd been spelled, and I can't quite remember exactly went down –"

"Come _on,_ Fred, that's not good enough!" I shout, standing in frustration. How the hell could he not remember? I need him to remember the specifics. "If you're going to lie, I'm going to use Veritaserum."

He sighs heavily, "I'm not lying. I want redemption, for all of those awful things I did."

Two things immediately strike me about that sentence. The first, his request and search for redemption. Interesting, especially as Death Eaters don't naturally have a penchant for redemption, simply want to pretend they can do good for the Ministry, while silently supporting the Darkness. Yet, Fred is from the Weasley family, who are a pureblood, but listed blood traitor, family. He wouldn't support the idea of blood purity, surely? The second, the awful things he did. _What the hell did he do?_

"What happened next?"

"There were arguments, talks about an uprising. Waiting for the precise moment when they could rise up," he starts. "Groups have been banding together for the last few years. People I don't recognise or recognise the names of. Foreigners, maybe. Regardless, it's people; numbers. They were planning something big, but then you came in…"

"And where were you in all of this?"

"Can I have a drink?"

His change of tact is not at all encouraging. Nevertheless, I'm tired of watching his facial movements for the moment, so I move away to the sink on the far side of the strangely circular room. The water is fast and hot, an obtrusive sound in our enveloping awkwardness. _Voldemort is building an army from beyond the grave_. Does that mean that there's a leader? Who's guiding them? Most of the prominent Death Eaters were killed in the battle or captured in Azkaban. Was there a back-up plan?

I hand him the glass of water gently. Our fingers brush. He takes a sip, shivering again. The room is not cold, but I understand.

"Where were you while Voldemort's forces were building?" I ask again, slipping the bottle of veritaserum in my pocket discreetly. "Were you helping?"

"Yes."

" _Why_ , Fred?"

He gulps at the water, steeling for time, not knowing that he is only worsening things for himself. "They threatened me, you, my entire family. They took me to their strange hideout and forced me to help them, otherwise they would take out everyone I love first." He skips over the explanation of his love, for me included. "I didn't want to, but then I had to - _did you feed me Veritaserum_?"

"Not a fan of telling the truth?" My voice is ice cold. He obviously didn't intend on being honest. "Let's find out exactly how deep your betrayal runs."

With a sudden whirling of my wand, bonds are wrapped around his wrists and ankles.

"You think I'm a traitor," he states a little sadly. I don't need to nod for him to know that he's correct. "I don't want you to think that. I tried so hard to fit in with them, to make sure you weren't in any danger. I did… So much wrong." Fred struggles with the last sentence.

"What did you do?" My voice is small, quiet, arms now covered in gooseflesh.

" _I killed people_! I killed, and I tortured, and I hurt people. I disrupted Order missions, I betrayed all of you over, and over, again," he cries, furious with himself, unable to keep the truth within. "I did exactly what all of the other Death Eaters did. Everything they told me to do, I did it. Everything I fought against for so long, I did it. All of it. I _killed_ people, Hermione."

I turn away, feeling sick.

"You don't want to know why?" he demands, almost maniacal, half-laughing. "Why I did all this shit?" _Don't look at him, don't turn around, Hermione_. "Because it was the only way to protect everyone."

"There are better fucking ways to protect people, Fred," I curse, even though I know he's telling the truth. He's got Veritaserum in him, so he physically cannot lie. His betrayal is raw, and awful, and he's speaking the way a guilty man does more than ever. Doing bad things to protect us – it's so movie-villain that I can hardly bear it. "What are you hoping to get from this? From speaking to me, and not to Robert, or the others?"

" _Redemption_."

He breathes the word as though is it sacred.

Perhaps it is.

Fred settles a little more into his chair but breathing heavily. I can't quite get my head around all of this. Why would telling me make a difference to his path of redemption – which is ridiculous, by the way. He has nothing to prove to me, does he? We had moments together, but I can't be _in love_ with a Death Eater. It's not right, and I… I just can't do that. He can't have… He can't be redeemed by me. How the hell am I supposed to tell the others?

I move away from him, stunned into silence. _Fuck_. A million questions float around my mind, but none of them seem shockingly significant enough to ask out loud. They're all important. Maybe I should have expected this. How could I have done? Fuck.

My voice is smaller than ever when I ask, "Why me?"

"You know why."

"Either my Veritaserum is faulty, or you're so full of shit that it blocks the truth," I murmur, without the same fiery punch as before. Suddenly dejected, I gulp at an open bottle of firewhiskey and return to the seat opposite him. "Fred, you're with us. You don't need to protect Death Eaters or protect us by favouring them. The only way to atone for your really fucking stupid mistakes is by the truth. Otherwise, it's a pointless forgiveness."

He nods. "Yeah, it's just… I've been gone so long, so much has happened."

"So, what?"

"Do you still love me?"

I start counting to ten, furious, aching, horrified. It's a perfectly good method to calming down.

One. Two. Three. My heart starts again.

Four. Five. I blink.

Six. Seven. Eight. He's staring back at me.

Nine. _How could he ask that?_

Ten. I look down at my hands.

"That's a very unfair question," I tell him. Strangely, he doesn't respond, waiting. I'm thankful "I haven't thought about things like that since you disappeared." A lie. "Fred, I don't like you right now, maybe I won't like you again. And I can't ignore or change feelings I've had for you for so long. But those feelings will not make everything you've done better. You betrayed us –"

"To protect you –"

"It doesn't matter."

"I'm unredeemable?" I close my eyes, aching. He persists, however. "Might as well go back to the fucking Death Eaters." And his laugh is so sudden and forced that I'm afraid he will cry instead. "It fucking sucks. Everything I did. _Everything_. It wasn't a choice to start with. Torture the mother or let your own mother die. Tell us this or your twin is next to go. And I saw what they could do – the power of them." He twists his mouth and I know he's upset. It takes a moment for him to calm again. "They gave me two shitty options. If I helped them, they wouldn't touch any of you."

"At what cost, Fred?"

He stays silent.

"It's dark outside," I note. "I'm going to send an owl to George. No doubt he's going crazy – Ron probably hasn't even told him how it all went down."

Painfully, I stand. Fred looks up at me, desperate.

"I don't want to see him."

This is how I know that the Veritaserum has worn off.

George may be the only one who can offer him what he wants: forgiveness and redemption.

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	61. Chapter 61: Journeying North

**Hope y'all enjoy! It was supposed to be a wondrous little thing for Houses Comp, but I think I'm gonna just chuck it in here for fun!**

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"Platform eight, come on!" I shout behind me, running. Draco is following, unhurried, and I'm desperately trying to tell him to go just a bit faster – because I know Muggle London, and I know that the train _will_ leave without us. He doesn't quite seem to understand the concept of him not being the most important person on that train. He's never liked that notion.

Tourists pass us in a blur of colour and sound, the whirring liveliness of London encircling us completely. My heart pounds furiously, exhausted, as my feet thump against the tarmac. I glance around for the numbers of the platforms, thinking that this was much easier when we were eleven years old. Of course, we were led by people who knew better then.

"Hermione, it's this way," Draco points, standing vaguely in front of a book shop. You'd think that, after all the years of attending Hogwarts, I would know where to find a damn platform. "Have you got the tickets for this ridiculous Muggle contraption?" He gestures to the metal barriers in front of us.

"Yes, yes, hang on," I mutter. He takes my case while I fumble around in my pockets for the bright orange paper tickets that will allow us entry. With one sideways look from a guard, we're through with no problems.

" _This is the last call for the 10:50 am train for Edinburgh from Platform Eight_."

Draco ushers me closer to the train. _Compartment D. Compartment D. Compart- there it is!_ I push the button to open the doors to our carriage, helping Draco inside. It's very different from the Hogwarts Express. Our school train had been steam-powered, extremely old-fashioned, and practically breathing with magic. This one is a classic Cross-Country. Plush seats worn down by years of use. Noisy, cracked windows. Children dotted in-between their stressed-out parents. Even in the quiet coach, pandemonium persists. I remember this from when my parents and I used to get the train to and from London for shows.

"Here we are," I say, seeing our seats at long last.

This holiday is supposed to be our way out of life for three weeks. Despite us having been together for two years now, not everyone is convinced that we are the best match in the world. I always tend to think that my happiness is more important than the bigotry of my two best friends. Besides, they've been working with him in the Auror department for over four years and should definitely have realised by now that he's not in favour of the Dark side.

One would think that would make an impact. Obviously not when it comes to Ronald Weasley and Harry Potter.

"When is this train going to get moving?" Draco asks, impatient already. I try to smile. It's going to be a very exhausting break if he's going to be as impatient as he is at work. "I mean, really, we could have apparated you know."

"I happen to find the train extremely relaxing," I murmur, glancing out of the window. _We'll be moving soon, I'm sure of it._ In the back of my mind, however, there is doubt. If we are stuck on this platform, maybe it will be a sign from some greater power. I don't believe in God, but maybe I do believe in some sort of backwards version of fate. If we, somehow, can't make it to our holiday, our break, maybe that means that we aren't supposed to… Maybe we aren't supposed to be together?

As if having heard my thoughts, the train judders to life, and my heart starts again.

Draco turns to me, smiling, and reaches for my hand and I take it, gladly.

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	62. Chapter 62: Train to Nowhere

**Ravenclaw, Head of House, Short, Prompt: [Setting] King's Cross Station, Platform 8 3/4 (Meaning you get to pick the train's destination.), WC: 500**

 **Note: I used the "Platform 8 3/4" in full word terms to prevent confusion for myself and others reading it.**

 **Also, this is definitely one of my headcanons and I would love it to be a real thing. I would say it's canon-compliant, but who really knows anymore? Enjoy!**

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As usual, Igor suspected, Kings Cross Station was jam packed. Tourists - the ones carrying enormous cameras and wearing brightly coloured plastic jackets to combat nonexistent rainfall - scattered the expansive area. There were very few commuters or workers, with it being just past rush hour.

He wrapped his cloak tighter around himself. The air was warmer in London than it had been in Scotland. Thankfully, it had been all too easy to apparate to Platform Nine and Three Quarters. Even easier to quickly pass through the barrier to the main train station. And it only took one glance for him to find the right place to Platform Eight and Three Quarters. There was a bench stationed in the right place.

That was his way in.

His escape route.

The only problem was finding the opportune moment. As if by magic, the tall, ginger man sitting on the bench beside him folded his paper, stood up, and left.

Now was his chance.

Igor's mark twinged painfully. The Dark Lord was calling him. As soon as he had felt the burning, saw the Mark go raw red, then coal black, he knew he had to run. And there was only one place to which he could truly escape.

In one swift, deft movement, his wand a curving blur, Igor Karkaroff had opened a portal to the lesser known Platform Eight and Three Quarters, through a barrier much similar to its more popular counterpart.

Unlike Platform Nine and Three Quarters, which was bold Hogwarts colours and clean from frequent use, this platform was much different. It was enclosed in a dark tunnel, greying, peeling paint hardly able to be read: _Train to Nowhere_. Cobwebs dangled from each curve and corner of the space, twisting in a breeze that seemed to manifest from nothingness. There was no train inhabiting the tracks before him, but Igor knew better than to believe this blank space.

He knew that, if he should wave his wand in a certain pattern, the train would unveil itself, and he could board with the many other escapees, and go to Nowhere.

Yet again, he cast his wand in a great arc.

Before him, a purple, monstrous engine appeared. It had chilled windows, cold from the lack of fire running through the train, but surely warmer inside where magic was glowing. Food was multiplied from limited, dull resources. Infinite numbers of passengers could board, so long as they knew the train was there. No one asked questions, because they all knew none of them wanted to answer any questions.

It was true, the train did go to Nowhere. But Nowhere wasn't a precise place, but more of a limbo, a constant, liminal space between here and there. When a passenger summoned the train, it was only revealed to them. Once that passenger boarded, the train would simply cease to exist between two realities until the next passenger attempted to board.

It was the perfect escape.

Not even the Voldemort could reach him there.

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	63. Chapter 63: A Shimmering Future

**Ravenclaw Head of House, Short 2, Prompt: Begging, WC: 673**

 **AU, Harry is homeless after the Dursley's threw him out.**

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His corner was darker than the others, shadowed, sheltered, and out of the wind. He reached out a hand into the dying sunlight, begging for something more than an unkindly glance or undisguised ignorance. There was nothing but icy glares and the faintest hint of a raindrop falling into the base of his palm. It was going to rain. Looking up at the dark sky, he knew it would be a particularly dreary stint, as well. Possibly all night. He would maybe have to meet up with another lonely soul for some company, body warmth, and just a little human interaction to keep him sane.

People were drawing away from the city centre now. It was gone six o'clock, so the majority of office workers had left, and the retailers' rush was petering off. They had all come in their droves, hustling for their warm cars, their warm homes, and their warm beds, while he was there asking for enough money to buy a cup of tea because he hadn't been able to afford a sandwich earlier on. And the soup station was too far away. He would risk someone else taking his perfectly good corner, where there was shelter, at least.

In the last six years of his life, living out on the streets, begging, in the coldness of day and night, and the coldness of other people, he had become significantly less hopeful. He used to believe in magic. He used to dream about bright green lights, flying motorcycles, and the stretching of a glittering, shimmering future. Those visions were nothing more, though, only fragments of his unconscious mind. He didn't have anywhere to dream anymore, only the dank, stone floor on which nightmares would occupy the little time of sleeping he would be permitted.

Harry Potter wiped away a smudge of dirt from his glasses and peered out a little further into the street. Rain splattered down, forming a small puddle at his feet. If he wasn't careful, his only pair of shoes would become sodden. Then there was the horrifying possibility of trench-foot, or flu. He had gotten flu the first year after the Dursleys - his aunt and uncle - had thrown him from their house for a _series of crimes_. Insubordination, supposed thievery, and his knack for odd things happening to him around them. Like when he had been furious, and then suddenly the lamps in the entire house had shattered. They had blamed him. But why?

A clattering of heels brought his attention skyward.

First, he saw the boots. Bold burgundy leather, with a shiny golden buckle adorning its side. Then he watched the bottom of the floor length material shudder in the rain. It was almost as though the cotton was alive, and coated in some sort of glitter powder. From every angle, even in the drizzling rain and the darkness of the hour, it caught the light and burst into iridescence. And lastly, Harry's eyes moved to the man's face. Surprisingly, he saw kindness there.

The man was ancient - that much could be realised from his crinkled eyes and pure white beard, hanging in wisps from his chin. But he was smiling, and it made Harry feel warmer and more at home than he had done in his entire life. He drew back his hand from the usual, begging pose. It felt rude to do so in this man's presence, which was peculiar.

He stood there, and Harry thought he ought to stand up too, but the man gestured for him to remain.

Silence hung between them. It felt as if they might have known each other in another life.

His smile resplendent, and his piercing blue eyes twinkling, the older man reached into the pocket of his mauve cloak. From it, he pulled a huge, golden coin. Harry had never seen anything like it before, and assumed the man must be foreign. It would explain the lack of conversation.

But Harry didn't get the chance to ask anything more, as the older man walked away.

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	64. Chapter 64: Deluded, Dangerous

**Ravenclaw Head of House, Round ten of Year 2. Short, Prompt: Deluded, WC: 645**

 **Authors note: the changes of address are on purpose (he, _me_ , did). They are to represent Draco's confusion over who he is, and whether he is the "I" version, or the version (he, we, Draco) that other people may be seeing. The "we" represents his conflicting consciousness. The "he/Draco" represents a reflective view from a distance. The "I" is his self he believes he is - the one that is insane and dangerous.**

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Crazy. Unstable. Dangerous.

These were words many people often used to describe Draco Malfoy. _Me. Draco Malfoy is me._ He has a hard time remembering. _No, I. I_ have a hard time piecing together who I am, and who I was, and who we are meant to be. _I am._ Mustn't refer to myself as 'we.' That's what they told us. _Me._ The voices told me.

Though there are perhaps many more than three words to describe us, _me,_ I also think there is another one hanging on the lips of society.

 _Deluded._

Draco Malfoy clung onto the thought of love, clung onto an ideal that was in no way true, and it drove him to the edge of insanity. That's what they all say about us. _Me._

I remember it so clearly, as though I were watching it this instant. Voldemort was crumbling into dust, Harry Potter was leaning forward in exhaustion, and Hermione Granger had grabbed the nearest person to her in joy. We wondered, _I wondered,_ whether it might have been pure chance, or whether she knew I was there all along. Perhaps she had meant to hold her redheaded friend.

Instead, she had clutched my shoulders, kissed my cheek, brushed her light fingers along my neck.

She was intoxicating.

We, _I,_ are, _am,_ not sure how it happened from there.

I had kissed her, her hair between my fingers, lips soft against my own, screaming on the inside, exulting on the outside, in this wild display of passion. She was everywhere. Her hands pulling me closer, her eyes slammed shut. People were shouting all around us, crying, agonised yells and uplifted, joyful expressions. The loss was so sudden and powerful for them, but she was there with me. She was there.

There is this play called Othello, written by a miraculous muggle called William Shakespeare - I read it from one of Hermione Granger's inundated book shelves. Othello is the man who _loved not wisely, but too well._ A man who thought he was a hero, but it turned out he was more dangerous than anyone could have anticipated. That, I think, is me. Except, there are many preconceptions about my family and danger.

Draco Malfoy most certainly deluded himself into thinking he deserved the girl he most wanted.

He, _I,_ thought that with everything we had done, it was enough to earn him some sort of right to happiness. A right to love. A right to passion, dark hallway kisses, sweet early mornings, and a glowing light that is being completed with your other half. Becoming whole.

Draco Malfoy was fucking wrong.

It was very similar to Othello, how it had all turned out. All except for the part of us being married.

I thought we were destined to be together, two souls matched by the stars. Our names written amongst the cosmos - a nebula of glittering people celebrating our embrace on the battlefield, culminating in the most beautiful love there ever could be. And yet, she didn't seem to see it. She didn't quite see the stars, or our names, or that we were meant to be.

She called me many different names. Deluded. Deluded was in there, yes.

He, _me_ \- I had to stop her from screaming.

Othello was right. Poison would have been better. It would have preserved her beauty. Now, there are marks covering her neck and face. Her breath lies on the dead air, a puff of smoke from the cold, dead meat of her. Purple decoration surrounding her features. A trail of blood from her nose and between those rose-bud lips I kissed so long ago. Dried since the breath of life left her.

We don't think she told anyone she was coming here, to my house, to talk.

She hasn't left.

Draco Malfoy is the deluded one, perhaps. But I am the dangerous one.

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	65. Chapter 65: Arthur's Joke Repertoire

**For the hard-working, genius, dear friend of mine. AlixxBlack - for your fabulous work in Round Nine!**

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"Molly dear, I learnt the most excellent joke at the office today - one of those lovely young people told it to me, knowing that, well... Do you want to hear it?" Arthur asks his wife, a broad grin spanning his features. Molly sighs and agrees, praying this won't be another of his whims for the next sixteen years of their marriage. "Okay then. What's the difference between Hermione Granger's boyfriend, and her potion-mixing receptacle?"

"I don't know, Arthur," Molly replies.

"There's no difference because... They're both _Cauldron_! Called Ron, Cauldron!" Arthur laughs heartily, unperturbed by his wife's severe lack of humour. He murmurs to himself, "Genius. Absolute genius."

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Arthur runs upstairs the next day, after hearing another fabulous joke on the tube - he often used muggle methods in order to connect with people, and experience the little joys in true frivolity. _Ginny will love this one_. He knocks on his daughters door, bursting to tell her.

She opens the door, confused.

"Dad? Everything okay?"

"I have a joke," he tells her. She raises a single eyebrow - something he is sure she acquired from her mother, both intrigued and dangerous, depending on what you do next. "Okay, okay, here it is. What do you call a group of whales playing instruments?"

"I don't know, what _do_ you call a group of whales playing instruments?"

His laughter comes before the punchline. "An _Orca-stra!"_

Ginny grins, shaking her head at his antics. Then she closes her bedroom, door, leaving her father to clutch his sides in wonderful laughter.

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"Dad!" George calls through to the front room of the burrow, carrying his son in his arms. "Dad, can you hold him a second?"

Arthur takes the baby from his son, smiling at the youngest Weasley, while George runs off to grab something from the baby bag Angelina is hauling through the doors. _This is such a perfect opportunity._

"I have a joke to tell you, and one day I hope you will be telling me all the best jokes you know," Arthur tells his grandson. The baby opens his eyes, curious. "Okay. How does a penguin build its house." Arthur waits for a response, knowing that the child can hardly think, let alone speak. " _Igloos_ it together!"

To his absolute joy and in the middle of Arthur's joyous laughter, Fred Junior's face splits into a toothless grin.

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	66. Chapter 66: The Worst Brother

**Ravenclaw HoH, Drabble,** **[Speech] "I didn't mean to date your ex. It just happened.", WC: 424**

 **AU, of course.**

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These sorts of instances usually start with one person not knowing what they did to upset the other. I am not in one of those situations. I know _exactly_ what I did to make my brother, Ron, leave the dinner table, furious with me; and why he is now slamming his bedroom door in my pleading face.

"I didn't mean to date your ex. It just happened."

The words seem flat from my lips, as if the apology is hanging just out of reach. I'm not sorry that I started dating Hermione Granger, who just so happens to be my brother's ex-girlfriend. She's mesmerizingly brilliant - beautiful, funny, a free spirit. Recently, we started spending time together, and everything just… _Clicked_. And I was suddenly wondering why I didn't notice all of this sooner.

"Ron, can you just open the bloody door so we can talk like men about this -"

"Piss off, Fred!" he shouts back, through the walls.

"Come on, seriously? You're going to be a child about this, are you -"

I step back, flinching, as the door almost rips of its hinges, and my brother's face appears before me. It's not a pleasant sight. His eyes are red and watery, and his face is blotchy. _Crap._ He pokes me in the chest, hard.

"You have no idea, no idea, Fred," he utters, voice cracking under the weight of his own emotions. Guilt races through me. _I really am a shitty brother._ "She was everything to me. She was the ex that is out of bounds - to my friends, and _especially_ to my brother. She's not a 'just happened' person. How could you think that I would be okay with this?"

I swallow thickly, putting out my hand to stop him from slamming the door again. "I didn't think… It just happened. We were laughing, then we were - no, wait, don't slam the door," I say, trying to salvage things. " _I love her_!"

The words burst from my lips before I have any sense of how to control them.

"I know exactly what you mean," I implore him. "She crept up on me. I know it's shitty, fucking hell, I tried so hard to _not_ fall for her." Ron takes a step back, as though I have just administered a physical blow. "I'm sorry you found out like this. I should have spoken to you earlier."

He nods, as if half accepting my apology.

"Just know, if you mess her around, _I will end you_."

And he slams the door in my face again.

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	67. Chapter 67: The Days That Follow

**Ravenclaw HoH, Short 2,** **[Emotion] Relief, WC: 577**

 **Draco Malfoy, reflecting after the war.**

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Sleep has evaded me ever since the war.

Every night, I feel as though I am ready to settle into some form of slumber. The sheets surround me, the lights dimmed, and windows closed from the chill of outside. Warm, comfortable, in the dark. One might think these were perfect conditions in which to have a restful sleep.

And yet, every night, I can't.

I turn over, churning the sheets, hot and cold, furious and sad. The cause is something common, the doctors said. A Healer told me it was something that would happen after the war – after the trauma we all endured. That I might not feel relief for a while - whether through sleeping or waking.

It is beyond exhausting.

I've tried to explain my predicament to people when they ask how I am, but no one seems to quite understand. I think that everyone is dealing with the stress and the anxiety in different ways, and that they have had a multitude of different consequences. Then there is the issue that not many enquire about my wellbeing. I don't have many friends, being who I am.

One of the main problems, I think, is that my family took part in the Death Eater activities. I am accused of hating Muggles. I am accused for my attempts on Dumbledore's life. I am accused of believing in the roles my parents played in the Dark Lord's plans. I am accused of being as toxic and evil as the rest of them.

Maybe I was, for a while. Maybe I did believe that the purest witches and wizards are those who are genetically so.

But I swear to all that I love in the world – granted, this isn't much – that I would never intend to hurt people in the way I saw those muggle-born families being hurt. Not once in my existence did I consider any of that just, or right.

And here I am. Accused by association to people I didn't choose. I cannot find any relief.

My dreams are only apparitions of my thoughts – they hang in the liminal space between waking and sleeping, and they terrify me. More than ever, they are images of the dead. I wonder what people think of when they die. Whether there is a moment of acknowledgement of death, or whether life is simply stripped of them before they can have a significant thought. Before they can consider their life, and all those they love.

My dreams are faces of the dead, of the abused, and of the tortured.

Although sleep has not come for many years, life will not always be that way.

It feels almost selfish to choose death, when there are so many people who would not have chosen death even into their hundreds. I'm not even close to middle-aged, and yet this appears to be my only way out.

I am always suspecting someone to approach me in the street, murder me there and then. I wouldn't blame them if they did, and I would certainly welcome their attempt upon my life.

I exist halfway between sleeping and waking now.

The whiskey rests on the bedside table, the empty bottle of antidepressants some inches from my shaking hands.

A warm relief floods through me, because I will no longer have to endure the sleepless nights, the burning stares, the fear of living beyond what the victims did.

I'll sleep now I'm dead.

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	68. Chapter 68: Harry: Best Friend Wedding

**A Gift Fic presented to Celestia0909 for all of her hard work for Ravenclaw in Round 10 of the Houses Competition!**

 **I present: Harry's Best Friend's Wedding**

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I used to think I was in love with Ron Weasley, my best friend. I used to think that after all the time we'd spent together, and all of our commitments to spending time, we would end up married. Maybe this was all part and parcel of a deluded twelve year old boy. Then again, I've had these thoughts recently, and I'm 27 now.

Yet, here we all are. I'm giving a speech at my best friend's wedding. As his best man.

A week ago I thought Ron and I were meant to be. I tried to persuade him not to marry this other woman - Sarah Jackson, I'd never even heard of her before - by putting on every Potter charm I could think of, to no avail. I flipped through Cosmo, hoping for some mystical way of attracting a man. Talking to him about certain things, paying attention to certain things about him, wearing my hair down more, speaking in a lower voice, trying dresses and skirts for once. I got some strange looks.

"Harry, what the hell are you wearing?" Ron laughed at me. It hurt, of course, after I spent all the effort flipping through Vogue, Cosmo, Hello - all those magazines that tell you what to do to get your man to notice you. Expose your legs, laugh at his jokes, try a more feminine look.

"Just trying to catch your attention," I muttered back to him.

"You definitely did that. _Cross dressing?_ Didn't think it was your thing, mate."

It was all well and good to laugh at my atrocious mistakes in order to get Ron to love me back. But it also made me realise something. Did I actually love him if I was making myself into fly-trap? Trying to sabotage his wedding and trying to make myself more appealing than the woman he intends to marry - what does that say about me?

Bad things, I'm sure.

If I'm wanting him to want me, then does that mean that I want him? It's a head-fucker, definitely.

Think I'll just stay single for a while.

It's better for _all_ of society.

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	69. Chapter 69: Silent, Blonde, Stranger

**A Gift Fic presented to Crakaboom for all of his hard work for Ravenclaw in Round 10 of the Houses Competition!**

 **I present: Silent, Blonde, Stranger**

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"You're in here every day," I comment to the man on the other side of the desk. He smiles - almost - and hands over three books he picked up from the _Philosophy and Ethics_ shelf over an hour ago. "How many of these books have you read then?" He shrugs, not committing to speech itself, though I know he can talk.

Last week he fumbled over a five pound note and handed it over claiming he wasn't fond of the new plastic sheen to them, and much preferred paper. I spoke something about them changing the ten pound notes, and he seemed to find his silence all over again. But I guess I find it sweet. The way he grins when he finds a book he likes the look of. The way he swipes back his white blonde hair. The fact that he reads. And I don't mean he reads books normally, I mean he must _engulf_ them the rate he buys them at.

Either that, or he has a library at home to fill.

"You know, I read that book once," I add, packing _Theology: A Mariner's Delve into the Molecular Composite of God_ into the small paper bag. "Very interesting."

"Not my favourite," he replies quickly, as though it scares him to say the words out loud.

"What's your favourite?" I ask, suddenly ridiculously curious.

"The Iliad." He takes the bag from my frozen fingers. "Hard work, very rewarding. You?"

 _So it seems that talk of actual books - discussing them - is what brings him to life._

"A Clockwork Orange." He raises a single eyebrow and a grin starts to spread. "I know, I know. Dark as Hell. But interesting if you're into linguistics. Like me."

"I'll add it to the neverending list."

With those last few words, he turns from my counter and leaves through the glass-paned door.

At least I know I will see him again tomorrow.

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	70. Chapter 70: Hell on Earth

**A Gift Fic presented to HollyHobbit101 for all of her hard work for Ravenclaw in Round 10 of the Houses Competition!**

 **I present: Hell on Earth**

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Screaming is like a second language to me.

Sometimes it's the only language I speak. In the dead of night, when the nightmares come, and Astoria isn't resting sweetly by my side. Screaming is everything I can hear, and everything I can say.

The War changed all of us, in all manner of ways. For me, it opened this new language barrier, and it broke the barrier to my emotions which I had been hiding all these years. It made me feel. And it made me feel everything. Every comment I had made, every punch I had thrown, every damn nasty thing I had ever done.

All of it was imprinted on my soul, and I knew I was going to Hell.

So I scream.

I scream because I am afraid. So afraid. Afraid of the Darkness that awaits me on the other side. And every day, Astoria and I grow older. She will always be the better of the two of us. I took her name in order to veer from my own. Now I'm Pansy Greengrass, afraid of the dark, and afraid of the Darkness that beckons.

It started with the nightmares. It started when I began dreaming about pitch black, burning funeral pyres, the dead being stacked like house cards in some sick game. Then I was dreaming about my limbs being torn off by every person I had ever taunted. And the dreams extended beyond night-time. They were in every waking moment.

There are in every waking moment.

I dream of Hell every night. I go there in my sleep.

One day, I know I am going there for real.

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	71. Chapter 71: Spinning Top

**Houses Competition. HoH, Ravenclaw, Drabble, Spinning top, WC: 227**

 **AU, for sure. If Harry hadn't have won.**

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Spinning, around and around, dizzy from it.

The girl watched from the corner of the room, watched the toy spin and spin and spin, like one of those fantastical dancers. It scraped the dust-ridden floorboards, screeched on the nails, twisting, churning, spinning. She watched, waiting for it to cease its movements. Breath held, as though betting on a winning horse.

It was hypnotising.

It was the only entertainment.

She didn't know how long she had been there, could only guess by how grubby she felt and how tired she was. She guessed it had been a little over six months since Voldemort had overpowered The Boy Who Lived and she had been thrown into the Malfoy Manor cellar, locked away just like Luna and Dean.

Somehow, miraculously, she had found the toy in a shadowed corner. She'd recognised it instantly from her mother's collection of antiques - it was almost an exact replica of the one her mother had kept all those years. If her mother was still alive, perhaps it was even still intact.

It had become somewhat an obsession, counting seconds, and counting the spinning and turning of the toy. It was the insane action of watching the thing that kept her sane.

Hermione Granger watched the spinning top, in between awaiting the daily meal, barely alive, but still hoping to win against some unknown force.

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	72. Chapter 72: A Series of Septembers

**Houses Competition. HoH, Ravenclaw, Drabble, 1st September, WC: 1422**

 **AU, for sure. Fred meets Hermione. Non-magical. Fate? Perhaps.**

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.

 _First of September, 2012_

Fred glanced out of the train window, watching Ipswich race past and the glorious countryside spread out like a roll of film in front of him. It was beautiful. Certainly more peaceful than he was used to, running the joke shop with his slightly crazed twin brother. He didn't need music to completely zone out and just relax for once. He was absorbed in the way the light glimmered back from the grass, and the way the window caught reflections. Too absorbed to notice the girl sidle down the crowded aisle.

"Excuse me?" she asked, a little breathless. Her voice dragged him from the sleepy reverie. He blinked, confused for a moment. "Do you mind if I sit here?"

Again, she gave him pause. Nevertheless, after a moment he gestured she should sit.

"Sorry, my brain stopped engaging for a minute there," he commented. She laughed nervously. Fred noted that she had a nice laugh, and that it would be almost rude to not attempt to make her laugh again. "I usually have my rowdy twin brother with me, so it's very weird to zone out so well."

"I've never thought trains to be particularly quiet," she replied, setting her bags between her knees. He noticed the suitcase and the purple rucksack, wondered whether she was going abroad, then mentally admonished himself for staring at her legs. It would be weird for him to be staring at her knees, right? Yes. "You know, people on their phones, the children, the chatter, the chunter of the rail tracks."

"Trust me, this is quiet," Fred grinned. "I run a joke shop."

The girl laughed shortly, as though surprised by his admission.

"Well that makes much more sense now. A crowded theme park must be quiet to you." Fred laughed, nodding. "I, however, work mostly in book shops. Everywhere is noisy. Including places where people don't talk at all. It's why I notice sounds so much. My god, I am babbling." She smiled again, embarrassed this time.

"Nothing wrong with babbling," Fred murmured. He decided he would introduce himself. "I'm Fred."

"Joke shop Fred, nice to meet you. I'm Hermione."

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ears, and so began the most wonderful train journey of his life so far.

.

 _First of September, 2013_

"Holy shit."

George whipped his head up at Fred's sudden swear. Not that the swearing was unusual, but they were in fact in the middle of the day, the store filled with children still on their summer holidays. They shrieked, danced, and played with the toys littering every unoccupied space. Yet, Fred - whose attention was so disrupted - was looking in one direction, at one particular person. A girl, with a mane of brown hair, carrying a purple rucksack.

He moved over to his brother, who was frozen in the process of stocking up on playing card packs, trying to comprehend what was so special about this girl.

"Freddie?" he asked, confused. "Who's that?"

"It's her," Fred muttered under his breath, not seeming to notice his twin beside him. "It's her. Jesus Christ it's her. Oh my god." He looked down at his hands, surprised to see he was holding a pack of cards, and then even more surprised to see George by his side, bewildered. "George! There you are!"

"Here I am," George grinned. "Who is she?"

Fred recalled the day on the train to London. She'd gotten on at Ipswich, visiting family, exactly a year ago. He remembered because it had been the day he'd come back from the hospital in Yarmouth. September first, 2012. His discharge from James Paget.

None of that was important. What was important was that the entire four hour trip from Yarmouth to London had been made spectacularly better by the presence of a one female named Hermione - the girl with the same backpack as the one in the shop that very instant. They had chatted a storm all the way to London. And he now knew odds and sods about this stranger - that her parents were dentists but they had since retired to Sheringham, that her favourite book would always be The Colour Purple, that she once fell into a mob of morris dancers because her shoe laces were too long.

"The girl from the train," he managed, instead of all this, in explanation. "I think I told you about her? I should have done."

"That was ages ago, though," George frowned.

"Exactly a year ago," Fred returned. "I'm gonna go see if she wants any help…"

But George held him back, one hand on his shoulder.

"Let it happen," George advised with a knowing smile.

Fred was ready to resent him when Hermione looked up from her tourist map, catching his eye. He looked away, certain that his cheeks were burning a furious red in embarrassment. Perhaps she was looking at George, thinking it was him? They looked very similar, after all. It was entirely possible.

But then she turned away and walked out of the store, much to the brothers' dismay.

.

 _First of September, 2014_

He was almost hopeful.

He woke up early, trying to think of the places where she might wander to. He thought of where he could go differently that she might be. After all, he had seen her on this date the last two years, and he was certainly hoping to make up for their lack of good conversation the previous year.

Fred Weasley had the day off work, which was unusual for him to start. He chose to go for a walk, rather than sitting in all day as he would have done. He decided to mosey around the bookstores, because if it was fate then she would be in one of the ones he went in. Surely? That was how fate worked, wasn't it?

It wasn't a particularly special september day. The sun rose steadily in the grey sky, pale gold against a smattering of clouds. It shed just enough light onto the dying leaves that surrounded the scene, but it was in no way a spectacular glowing burst of colours that might depict the perfect day for meeting a beautiful woman, sort of by chance.

Did that matter in the big scheme of things? That the weather wasn't perfect. Not really, thought Fred.

"Hey!"

The voice drew his attention immediately because, even though he had spoken to her only once two years ago, he recognised it instantly. Because he had been hoping, he suspected. And his face was halfway to a grin when he saw her face, the pointing finger, a worried shout then…

Darkness had filled the spaces of his head. Lights flickered behind his eyelids, but he wasn't quite ready to wake up yet. He could hear her talking, and she must be a dream. He couldn't just wake up from a dream where she would be preserved. He didn't want to wake up just yet.

"Have you contacted his brother?" Fred heard her asking.

"Yes, he's on the way," another man replied, but Fred knew not who.

"I should be going, I have to get back home. But his brother will be here soon?"

"Yes Miss Granger, no need to worry. I will let him know you stayed as long as you were able."

.

 _First of September, 2015_

"Seriously?" Fred demanded, halfway to laughing. She was stood in front of him, almost as surprised as he was. But surely neither of them should have been surprised at this point? "Again. On this day. This is crazy - are you stalking me?"

"Excuse me?" Hermione Granger parried, looking horrified. "What about you stalking me?"

"Come on, you got on my train. Came into my shop. I got hit by a car when you shouted to me. And now you're in my home village. Seriously, no one lives in Ottery St. Catchpole." As Fred spoke, Hermione grew more astounded at how it all sounded. But, from her point of view, that wasn't how it had happened at all. The instances had been a series of coincidences. "Yet. Here you are, as if by some ridiculous miracle."

She looked for a moment that she would argue.

"It's weird, right?"

"So weird," Fred laughed. "Do you think it means anything?"

"I guess I'm a believer in fate, but I never would have expected it, you know?" she smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "But maybe we should listen to whatever it's trying to say."

"I couldn't agree more."

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	73. Chapter 73: To Hogwarts

**Houses Competition. HoH, Ravenclaw, Additional, First trip to Hogwarts, WC: 1165**

 **Fits to canon as far as I can see. Hermione reflecting on her first trip, and her daughter's first.**

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I remember my first trip to Hogwarts well enough. It feels like it was a lifetime ago, sitting on the train, brand new robes, without knowing any of my peers. I wanted to be the kind of student who would always know the answers to questions, and I wanted to be confident and brave in a world I had only just been brought into. I had wanted to be the kind of person people would admire somewhat, or at least accept as their own.

We all know that's not quite how the story went; at least, not to start with.

My first trip to Hogwarts was more of a disaster - an eye-opener - in all honesty. Neville Longbottom lost his toad maybe three or four times. I met Ronald Weasley and Harry Potter, much to their disdain I think. Ron had dirt on his nose, and Harry looked like he had never expected to meet another person who could be interested in him.

This very first journey north to Scotland was, and is, significant for so many reasons. It set up the friendships I would keep for many years to come, and the things I would come to cherish during my time at Hogwarts. Helping people, doing what was right, being true to myself in spite of everyone else.

If I hadn't met Ron and Harry on that train ride, I don't think I would have had the same level of courage in talking to them later. I wouldn't have engaged with them so readily. I wouldn't have been so upset by Ron's comment, that I was annoying and therefore friendless, above all the others I had heard around me. . Yet, my being hurt by his comment meant that I was in the bathroom when the troll came in. And this cemented our friendship.

There aren't many moments in life I can say with certainty that created such a chain of events as that first trip.

It's terrifying to think of everything which originated from journeying to Hogwarts. And even more terrifying to consider that now my children are embarking on their own paths to life. Hogwarts was the beginning of the woman and the witch I am now. And here we are again, my beautiful Rose Granger-Weasley boarding the Hogwarts Express for the first time to only god knows what sorts of drama.

Her first trip to Hogwarts. I hope it's calm, and that people are polite and kind to her.

I hope there are no dementors. That Death Eaters don't intrude. That there isn't the impending threat of Voldemort. That the most difficult thing she will deal with is a dirt-nosed ginger and a gentile boy who loses his toad.

As entertaining as my childhood may seem to others, I would not wish it on another child.

I hope Rose makes decent friends and doesn't fall into the clutches of evil beings or fret for her life during every term.

This first trip to Hogwarts is what will make the rest of her Hogwarts career.

Rose smiles at me from the window. Ron squeezes my hand, as if knowing how emotional I am. Or perhaps because he himself is feeling the aching pain of watching our daughter on her path to leaving us for four months, for the first time. But at least she is smiling. She knows a little of what she will be getting herself into. She knows about the professors, the lessons, the castle and the wonder it holds - wonders only we could tell her, not the books or the endless articles. The Room of Requirement, the confirmed Chamber of Secrets, the churning, turning corridors.

I'm glad she knows a little about the place. She can be a little more confident on her first trip to Hogwarts, and she can be confident with good reason.

I see Harry watching his own son with worry. Personally, I don't think he has any cause for concern. Albus is a quiet enough child, and he won't get into trouble the way we used to. His worry about going into Slytherin is baseless. It shouldn't matter which house he is put in. He will be loved by his family, no matter what.

All we can do is to hope for the very best for each and every one of them, embarking on this new journey and embarking on this wonderful new part of life.

Rose calls her love out to us from the train window, slamming the door closed behind her as the whistle blows - the whistle signalling that our children are going to be on their way very soon. Albus frowns. Harry tries to smile. I can feel myself tearing up, but I think it is totally called for. My daughter is leaving.

All around us, the smoke gathers and swirls, enveloping our group. It smells of ash and dirt and dreams. It discolours the air for a moment, sweeping the parents away from the children, separating us for a brief moment.

The train whistles again, shrill.

I know it's time to really say goodbye. Because maybe Rose won't come home at Christmas - maybe she will want to stay. Maybe she will stay and grow disinterested by us.

That's what could happen.

But I hope that it won't.

We wave the children off, smiles on our lips and worry in our eyes. Going through the barrier is much easier the other way, as the four adults and the two younger children attempt through the hoards to get back home. Ron tells a few jokes; the children laugh. I talk to Ginny and Harry about whether they would like to come over for dinner.

All of us know how empty our homes will feel now that we have said goodbye.

The four days between seeing the scarlet train disappearing and receiving Rose's first letter are some of the tensest days I have lived in my relatively short life. Four days spent wondering what house she is in, whether she made new friends, what her first class is going to be.

 _Dear Mum_

 _I'm in Gryffindor! Just like you and Dad, so I think that's good?_

 _Everything is going well so far here. Except Albus being in Slytherin of course, but I expect that you all knew that already. Al has been quite animated about the whole ordeal in our short time here already. He's made a friend already - but then again it is Scorpius Malfoy. Not sure what to think of that union?_

 _I have Potions class first on Monday and am looking forward to it very much. There are lots of nice girls in my year, and in my house, so I have a good feeling about this year._

 _Love and happy wishes_

 _Rose_

I'm not quite sure what to make of the letter, but she sounds positive. And that's as good as I'm going to get for a little while, I believe.

So I sit, and I start to pen my letter back.

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	74. Chapter 74: 12:24

**HoH, Ravenclaw, Standard, 12:24, WC: 775**

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I check the time.

It's funny how time can move so impossibly slowly when all you want it to do is to hurry the fuck up already. Because you're waiting, on the edge of your seat, for the clock to click and lock into place, securing your hold in time. Because once that moment has passed - and it ought to, it will do - then the moment of truth is in history and cannot be rewritten. And the thing you are fearing or excited for will have come to pass and suddenly you will have to deal with it.

No matter how fast my mind churns, how much I try to distract myself with thoughts and feelings, the time does not move past 12:24.

Twenty four minutes past noon seems to have been frozen for the past four hours. Surely four hours have passed while I have been staring at the time, thinking about how many different ways my life could go, based on the results that will be filling my screen at twenty five minutes past noon.

Maybe the results will be good. I'll have passed well, and then I could find a job at a appropriate law firm.

Maybe the results will be good, but law firms won't have any jobs available. So I would be temporarily stuck for a few years until someone decides to give up their excellent job, and I can move in on the chain of lawyers in a big employment for the rest of my life.

Then there are the other options that don't involve me doing so well.

Maybe I will have completely failed, and I'm just not destined to be a lawyer. I can forget my dream, burn every single one of my books, and move onto a completely different career that doesn't involve law in any part of it. I can just forget all about my years of studying. I could go into retail, build up a CV based purely on shops, catering, hospitality. I could try my hand at writing, or painting, or photography.

Maybe I will have failed but not done so horrendously, in which I case I can walk away from the law thing with dignity.

Or maybe I will have failed, but only just.

I could take the exams again, work on my knowledge, some experience, and build up myself as a lawyer. Then maybe things will be easier when I come to retake the examinations, and I will be better prepared for a good, long future in law.

I glance over at the clock again.

 _How the fucking hell is it still 12:24?_

I flop back against the chair I'm sitting on, furiously tapping the refresh button in the hope that someone's finger, somewhere else, will slip, and the results will come early. If they did, I would be put out of my misery, at long last.

My phone hasn't buzzed to life all day, and I know everyone else must be feeling the same amount of tension as I am. Like me, perhaps, they tried to do all manner of brainless things in the morning, unable to sleep, and eventually sat down at the computer, waiting anxiously for results to released out.

For instance, I did the washing up rather unnecessarily. I changed some light bulbs. I wrote a list over four times, certain that I would be most productive in only a particular colour blue pen, and that nothing else would do. So I tried lots of different pens until it felt right and I could stop the tension from that task. I glanced over the list a number of times, thinking about the best way to do the things I needed to do without actually doing them. That's all making a list is, right? Just thinking about what you need to do, o prompt yourself into doing the things at a later time.

 _God, stop babbling. Think about something else._

They always say that time passes slower when you're thinking about it passing. And I can't stop thinking about it. Trying to imagine the second hand passing each marker, closer and closer to -

 _Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit._

 _Quick, refresh the page._

I scan through the words, the terms and conditions, anything that might mean nothing or could change my life.

Honestly, I almost miss the words in bold. They could have been in flashing gold and silver, screaming at me from the internet, and I still would have glanced over them, convinced that I would find a FAIL sprawled over the page in a dark watermark.

12:25. I passed.

Thank god for that.

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	75. Chapter 75: Gentleman

**HoH, Ravenclaw, Short, Wedding, WC: 1944**

 **Cormac asks Hermione on a date. She reluctantly agrees, and soon finds out that she was reluctant with good reason.**

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"Hermione, wait up," Cormac calls after me, as I gather my things. He moves towards me; through the throng of people escaping the conference room for the final meeting of the day. "Great presentation."

"Thanks," I return, hoping that there isn't much more to Cormac's comments. However, I appear to be incorrect. He hovers, twisting his hands together, straightening his tie, while I shuffle my own bumf of paper. I clear my throat, thinking it might prompt him into getting on with whatever he wants to say to me this time. "Is there something else you wanted, Cormac?"

He starts. "Yeah, there is - sorry." But words appear to be failing him to some extent. "Look, it's something I've thought about for a while. Something I've wanted to talk to you about for a while. And I guess I'm just working up my courage, or something ridiculous like that." I wait patiently for him to just spit it out, and perhaps my facial expression lets him know that I'm tired of his blabbering. "Yes. Well, it's just that I find myself more than a little attracted to you, and I wanted to ask you out. I know we never got off to the right start back at Hogwarts, and I am sorry for that. But maybe, just maybe, you could give me a shot this time?"

Um, what? I almost laugh in his face, but that would be rude.

Back in our Hogwarts days, I brought Cormac to a party as my date to spite my high-school crush, Ron Weasley. I took advantage of his liking to me, not even considering that to go on a successful date, the pairing must be at least somewhat mutual. Which simply had not been the case.

Sure, he was good looking. Fit from sport. Vaguely intelligent. But his pompous attitude reminded me too much of the posh kids at my old middle school. They were the kinds of person who boasted about something just to say something, not because it was at all important. To me, it was an incredibly unattractive trait, but dating Cormac was a guaranteed way to piss Ron off. Hence, that's why I did it.

Karma served me, because the whole evening was a disaster and I decreed that I would never consider dating Cormac McClaggen, or anyone of the similar type, ever again.

And here I am. The same person standing in front of me who I have based the last ten years of my dating life on. Asking me out on a date.

Perhaps he notices my pause.

"Just one date, Hermione," he persists, his cow lick falling into his eyes. Dammit. "And if I'm still not right, then we can just go our separate ways."

"What makes you think things will be different this time?" I ask.

He almost smirks. "Ten years of maturity, and I'm not competing with you being in love with another man."

This is completely fair.

So I agree to the date.

It's possible that I am naïve in the world of dating, having only been in a relationship with two men and casually dated on rare occasions. However, it still means that I have been on a sufficient number of dates, and that I most certainly would not expect someone - no less, someone who seemed to want to impress me - to take me on a date to an event he must have known I was attending. And an odd one at that.

Cormac McClaggen, just a week after asking me out, offered to escort me to Harry's wedding. Yes, Harry Potter, my best friend. The boy I have known since we were eleven years old, five years before I even met McClaggen. Obviously I would already be attending the wedding, as a bridesmaid even. Maybe Cormac couldn't quite comprehend that, or maybe he wanted a way in? I'm really trying not to think about it too much, for fear of what I might assume before the day has even begun. I refuse to let him ruin my best friend's wedding.

A wedding is a somewhat romantic setting, one would suppose. Thus, it might make sense as to why Cormac thought it would be a good idea to go together. The Potter-Weasley wedding is hyped to be the most sought-after event for the next five years, and it will be a lavish occasion no matter what.

Hopefully Cormac was just thinking that accompanying me to the wedding would be the best of the best occasions he could possibly hope to attend. And so far he has been the perfect gentleman. He brought me a glass of prosecco, hasn't presumed to kiss me on the lips or even the cheek, and has talked genially with everyone who has approached us thus far. He's been friendly, polite, and even funny.

It seems odd to say, but I guess I could see myself falling for him. Just about.

"Fantastic speech, mate," Cormac congratulates Ron as he finishes his best man speech. "Really funny."

Ron, who would usually be so far deterred by Cormac that any comment would propel him across the room simply smiles and replies, "Cheers Cormac. I worked bloody hard on it." And they both laugh, like there was never anything between them in the first place. It's peculiar, but I'm thinking it's definitely a positive thing. Because someone who can get along well with Ron - who I occasionally deem to be the most ludicrously difficult person ever - is going to be winning whatever kind of race there might be.

As the day wears on into early evening, I find myself almost attracted to the winning charm of Cormac McClaggen.

It's the small intricacies that really make me believe that we might be a good match - that he would be a gentleman, and a gentle man. That he would look after me, and care for me, as well as being scintillatingly intelligent and somewhat humorous.

Yet, things start to break down when my favourite song comes on from the band.

I begin humming, almost unaware of how much I am enjoying the music and desperately wanting to be on the dancefloor. My foot taps on the linoleum floor, and fingers play through the chords of the song as though I am on the piano like when I was younger. Cormac sits beside me, sipping on a whiskey. Wistful, I glance out over the dancefloor at Harry and Ginny gently swaying to the music. Ron is chatting to the Weasley twins on the other edge of the room. He spares a look in my direction.

"Can you stop humming a sec please?" Cormac interrupts my thoughts, raising an eyebrow.

What?

"I'm just trying to think and I can't focus with you making that horrendous noise."

I don't say a word but simply stare at him. Impossible. That he could go from someone so gentle and caring to... this. The bravado in his tone. No way; I refuse to deal with this shit at my friend's wedding.

So, more than happy to part ways for a moment, I stand and leave the table we are sitting at. The fact that he doesn't follow me is perhaps indicative of the certain lack of care that he must feel. Maybe it's better for him not to follow me, as I stumble, halfway drunk, through the throng of people over the dancefloor, gathering in the corridors, hollering into the glittering night sky. Decidedly, it's much better outside. The air is fresh and gives me good enough time to think and just collect my thoughts all over again.

Okay, so it wasn't so bad. He's not been completely written off for one comment. But we shall see.

"Drink, Hermione?" he's asking me ten minutes later, gulping down his sixth pint of the evening. How he is still standing, I have absolutely no idea. I nod, smiling, watching the dancing from afar, feeling sad that I can't join in with Cormac. But ultimately sad because it's not proper to dance at a wedding by one's self. It should be, for all of those people who simply do not want to attach themselves to another person.

I glance across the glittering room, past the people in their shimmering gowns, to see Cormac leaning over the bar where the drinks are served. Opposite him, a blonde with a black, sheer top. The girl with the fantastic body and the brilliant smile. He whispers something in her ear, and she unleashes the smile onto him. Of course, he falls right for it, grinning back. He hands her a piece of paper, and she smirks, tucking it into her bra.

Jesus.

I know Cormac and I aren't dating, but that was really wrong. Not gentlemanly at all.

He can't fool me anymore. Bringing the drinks to talk to the bartender. Keeping me quiet in the conversations, talking genially. I realise I haven't actually spoken that much all day, that he has been blocking my conversations. Pulling me around like I must follow his every direction.

"What's her name?" I ask when he returns with our drinks, another five minutes later.

"Who?" He sips at the next pint of beer, half a smile still splattered on his features.

"The girl at the bar."

Cormac balks, and I wish I could have caught it on camera.

"Melanie, why? Because I was talking to her?" I feel my heart clenching, because I know the tension of an argument is about to bring itself upon us and I'm too tired. Also, I'm at my best friend's wedding - this is not the place to get into things with Cormac McClaggen. "Hold your tongue, Granger, don't be petty. It will ruin our night of what is yet to come."

The true audacity of his statement lies in the wink that follows immediately after.

Perhaps I should have indicated one salient thing before we embarked on a date, that my everything is not something that is just for fun. I mean everything as in every sense of who I am, and who I would be in a relationship. The dates, the sex, the time. I am not someone to simply spend a night of fun before cutting the chase and moving on. I'm not going to be his conquest. I want to settle, to date responsibly, and I want to give my everything to someone who is going to respect me. That feels simple enough to me, in all honesty.

Perhaps he was just acting the gentleman.

It's not love, he had some twisted plan. He just executed it very badly.

"Sorry, I'm not doing this with you, McClaggen," I mutter into the awkward silence between us. "Not any of it. Ever. You can't fool me into believing you're actually decent, but there's no gentleman here. And I really thought that you might have actually been someone I could fall in love with. But I was so wrong that it honestly makes me very sad inside."

He frowns. "I don't want you to feel sad."

"I just... I need someone who will hold my hand, who will be gentle, and who will accept me for how I am - not want someone else. Cheating is weak." I pick up my handbag from the chair and stand up. I don't need my drink. I'm going to find my best friend's and dance until my feet fall off, because I am not going to spend my life thinking back to this evening as the time when Cormac McClaggen decided to be a dick to me.

He thought it was effortlessly in hand, but perhaps I'm too savvy for that.

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	76. Chapter 76: Homeward Bound

**HoH, Ravenclaw, Additional, Prompt: Returning home after a long trip, WC: 1072**

 **Draco works in the same department as Hemione and has a horrible crush on his boss. Muggledom.**

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When the sun burst through the curtains at five o'clock this morning, suffice to say I was a little more than fucking relieved. I was catatonically ecstatic. Because guess what, I was going home. I had survived the four-day trip with work, the berating looks, the heavy drinking from everyone else (I was off the drink, desperately trying to be healthier, and managing to get through a pile of chips instead), and my one true detestation.

Hermione Granger with her stupid hair and her brilliance, wearing me down. One day, I imagine, I will follow her every demand, purely because I've been continually pressured into doing so. I mean, I understand that I work for her department, but the constant instruction and attention to detail is incredibly exhausting. But holy mother fucking shit, I am attracted to her. And it is really fucking annoying.

Nevertheless, I'm on the train. I'm returning home.

Luna Lovegood has been my consistent heart-blocker for the four days. Very long four days.

It came about in a very strange way, to be completely honest.

I had been sitting in the bar after the first night of retreat meetings, drowning my horrified sorrows in a glass of apple juice (depressing, I know), when Lovegood approached me quite randomly, claiming she had seen glitter in my hair, but must have been mistaken. I was taken aback at first, but then she joined me and asked why I was drinking alone, rather than drinking riotously with everyone else. She asked me why I hadn't spoken a word back to Hermione all day. She assumed we'd had some sort of row, as we often do in the office.

Alas, no. I wish we'd argued. That would have been a lot fucking easier.

Lovegood seemed to peg pretty quickly what was going on. That I liked Hermione. That I didn't call her Granger, and that apparently was indicative of my liking of her. That each day of her ignoring me, talking to everyone else, and flirting with the idiot Isaac from the Accounts team, was torturous.

Lovegood thought I was in love with her, but I was not convinced.

By day two, I was not certain that Lovegood was wrong. I started to question things. I started to question the feeling when she walked into a room - like my stomach had sunk, my brain had melted, and my heart had clenched tight. I started to question the way my desire to be near her conflicted with my desire to not see her at all - because if I saw her, I would see her with someone else, someone better. Someone who just wasn't me.

On day three, I didn't even know what to think. Hermione was my team leader for the team-building games we were doing. It was a preposterous obstacle course involving making a human pyramid, climbing over each other, and getting a little too close to my colleagues than I wanted. Lovegood, the fucking genius, called out to help Hermione when she shouted for me. She was a godsend, if I believed in God.

Day four was our last day and the evening meal that had been planned prior to the event: three courses, too much wine, and a few oddly-performed dance numbers.

Hermione pulled me over to a corner halfway through the evening, red wine slopping up the sides of her glass. She was beautiful, and I almost hated myself for thinking that. Her hair was pulled back at the sides and wild at the back, eyes glittering with the joy of having had a successful week, and she was smiling from the wonderful evening. Granted, the food was excellent, and Lovegood provided a decent conversation - at least, decent in the way that I am fairly certain she is mad, and also certain that she believes the most interesting things.

Anyway.

Hermione pulled me into the corner, grinning at me, tugging at my shirt sleeves. I tried to get Lovegood's attention, so she could maybe talk Hermione bored about something, or even intrigue her so much that she completely forgets that I was there. Yet, all of this was to no avail, and I soon found myself laughing at her little jokes, complimenting her, and wishing for the day to be over so I could stop embarrassing myself.

We danced together, though terribly, I made sure not to drink anything, determined to remember every aching moment. Then I kissed her on the cheek to wish her goodnight. She blushed a wonderful vermillion and went upstairs to pack around midnight.

I didn't see her this morning.

Thank fuck for that.

Lovegood packed herself onto an earlier train, leaving me a silly note on my door.

I sorted my things out quietly, leaving earlier than most, but not ludicrously so. There are maybe one or two people on this train as well from our team at work, but none I would have made an effort to speak to or engage with. I'm not really a social butterfly anyway. And it has been too long a trip, too long a time with these people, to warrant me involving myself in their lives for even a little longer.

Now I'm sitting on the train and almost home.

Maybe I was hoping to catch sight of Hermione one last time, but fate is neither kind nor real. Instead, I escort myself off the train, haul my bag to the taxi rank, and pay for the fare home. It's cosy enough, and the views are as good as they always are - the oppressive and spectacular rolling hills, the endless, unique cafes on hillsides. Yorkshire is just as lovely as it was when I left, which is such a wonderful comfort to me.

Door unlocked, bags thrown into the living room, jacket tossed over the bannister, I stumble through the hallway. On the countertop is the chipped mug I left last week - I dropped it in the sink and never wanted to throw it out completely. By the door is the pair of shoes I thought I might need but knew I wouldn't - wellington boots were never my preference. Everything seems as though I had left only moments ago.

Honest to God, returning home from such an exhausting trip, one with such emotional strain, is one of the best feelings in the world.

Second only to the feeling of knowing that I have made Hermione Granger smile.

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	77. Chapter 77: Love Ain't Easy

**For AJ, for her work in Year 3 Round Two of the Houses Competition.**

 **Luna and Ginny.**

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"We _can't_ , Luna," Ginny whispers, just as I'm leaning in to kiss her. Her breath is balmy on my cheek, her floral perfume filling the dark air between us. I pause, preparing my heart for what is to come. Because, although she has said that she loves me, claimed that she wants to be with me, there has always been a niggling sense of doubt in my mind. " _I_ can't…"

"Can't _what_?" I ask, heart sinking further, right down to below my knees. "Can't be with me?"

I feel her pulling away from me, extricating herself. My hand falls from her shoulder, from where it was resting. The air is cold, my arm hairs standing up. _She's going to hurt you now_. She is going to hurt me, I know this. I knew it. I knew that fiery-haired, brave Gryffindor, Ginny Weasley would shatter many hearts with her beauty and her boldness.

"Luna…" she starts something, but her words trail off into a nothing-apology. I swallow thickly. The darkness of the room envelopes us, the only light glimmering around us is that of the moon, partly showing through the crack in her curtains. Ginny moves, and her eyes are briefly lit up in the silver glow, before slinking back into the shadows again. "There's something I need to tell you. It's not… It's not pleasant, but I can't _not_ tell you. I can't have you thinking -"

"Ginny, _please_ ," I interrupt, hands clenching and unclenching with the tension of the moment. "Whatever it is, I can handle it. _We_ can handle it."

She shakes her head again, retreating further into the darkness, further away from me.

"Harry has asked me to marry him."

 _No._

"This morning. I didn't want to tell you, because I didn't want this to end…"

 _No._

"But it has to."

" _So you said yes_?" I ask, the pressure of emotion punching my chest. Aching, I stumble backwards. "You agreed anyway?"

"It's whatever everyone wants," Ginny murmurs in argument.

"Except for you. _Doesn't that count_?"

Her silence is all the answer I require. What it means, I'm not certain, but I know it's not good for our future together. It could mean that she does want to be with Harry, and that everything we had was a lie. Or it could mean that our happiness doesn't matter - she wants to stick to the status quo. Because it's too unnatural to be in love with a woman, according to too many people in her life.

I can't live as part of her lie anymore.

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	78. Chapter 78: Should I Be Sensible?

**Houses competition. Ravenclaw, HoH, Additional, Prompt: Hermione and Cedric, WC: 700**

 **AU, in which Cedric is alive because Voldy-pants doesn't exist.**

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I was always one of the sensible children. I was the front-desk kid in school, always listening. I answered the teacher's questions, and I understood my classes. I didn't get along with those who didn't understand. Instead, I hung around with those of similar vein - the bookworms, the awkwardly friendless, and the intelligents. There wasn't much conversation outside of that concerning school work, and there wasn't much conversation.

Hogwarts was very different from that quiet life. Especially in Gryffindor.

I only had one friendless month at Hogwarts. In October, Ron and Harry saved me from the troll. This incident was the catalyst for our riotous childhood. This friendship has resulted in my slight crush (read: hateful infatuation) on our ginger friend.

I shouldn't have a crush on Ron. It's not like me. I should like someone sensible. Someone who doesn't gulp down their meals like it's their last. Someone who doesn't infuriate me over competitiveness, irresponsbility, and complete lack of dedication to anything other than Quidditch.

Alas, here we are.

Here, more specifically, is five years after Hogwarts, huddled around a too-small table in The Leaky Cauldron. Harry and Ginny make a sweet couple, their arms wrapped around each other. It's a nice enough existence, being twenty-three and out drinking with friends.

"Your round, Hermione," Ron laughs, breathing in sharply and belching. "Another pint for me."

Harry and Ginny confirm their orders too.

His manners aren't even his only problem. Yet, he's always been this way. Maybe my wishes for him to be better prove that I should give up on anything other than friendly companionship.

"Hermione?" a voice asks from beside me at the bar, in amongst a throng of clamouring customers. He calls again, holding out a hand in greeting, and I instantly recognise him.

Cedric Diggory.

"Hi," I reply, halfway to laughing. I certainly wouldn't expect him to greet me, let alone notice me. He gestures, ushering me over in his direction. From his eyes, I can tell that the world is a little blurry to him. He's buzzed, halfway to drunk like the rest of us. "Nice to see you, Cedric. Is everything okay?"

"Wonderful, thank you."

He smiles invitingly, his pretty face only slightly aged. He was always good looking, and hasn't changed much since I last saw him about eight years ago. "Do you want to join me for a drink? I know you're with the others, but take a break, maybe?"

Perplexing, but okay.

"Sure," I nod.

This is odd, this so odd, my mind chants to itself, and I know that perhaps I should be more intrigued and perhaps I should even be pleased that the beautiful, brilliant, bold Cedric Diggory is taking an interest in me. I'm not, though. "What's up?"

"Oh you know, usual stuff - work, my father, all of life's intricacies. But that's not what I wanted to say."

He takes a swig of his beer. I notice it's craft beer, not that it should matter. "I actually wanted to talk to you about your most recent research paper, the one on our changing perceptions of Human Nature, in spite of Richardson's evidence. It's very interesting how you don't compare the two, yet you…"

At this point, I start to drift off. He's asking about work.

Hogwarts champion. Good looking. Sensible. In my periphery, I see Ron picking a crisp from his jumper and eating it. Maybe talking to Cedric wouldn't be a bad thing. It's a shame he's so dull.

"To be honest," I find myself saying, "I wrote the paper based on an article I read which contradicted what Richardson was saying. The article gave me the idea, so it's difficult to ascertain exactly at which point I had the epiphany, you know?"

Cedric smiles back at me, stuck halfway between agreeing and probing further.

He's being diplomatic, which is the problem. I hate it.

On one hand it seems like a good thing for someone to let me talk, for someone to actually not always say the exact things on their mind.

I think I want someone to challenge me.

I think I want Ron. No. I know I want Ron.

Damn. Back to square one.

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	79. Chapter 79: Advice For Charlie

**HoH, Ravenclaw, Standard, Charlie and Sirius, WC: 880**

 **In a world that is AU, and voldy-pants doesn't exist.**

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I spot the crazy, lovesick fool from a million miles away.

Well, I say that. It was really only about four foot, while he was staring vacantly into space. Immediately, I recognise the look. I understand his failed jokes at the dinner table, and I understand why he sits now with a clearly untouched book in his lap.

Amused, I shake my head. Because fuck if I understand exactly what the poor sucker is going through. Being in love with a bookworm is tough when you've never been someone who reads a whole lot. Like myself, I just managed to understand what we were taught at school, without needing to read. Like Charlie, who doesn't need to understand the particulars within books because he's interested in other things - magical beasts, dragons, danger. He never needed academia, except in trying to prove his worth to Hermione Granger.

He looks around, briefly, as if only just realising he was absently staring in one direction for longer than ten minutes. Lo and behold, he notices me grinning at him, understanding exactly what he is going through. Charlie blinks a few times, as if trying to shake himself from the daze that had settled over him.

"Right, I cannot keep my eyes open any longer," Hermione murmurs into the near-silence, her voice the only sound other than the crackling fire. "Bedtime for me."

With those words, and a glance in Charlie's direction, she turns to the stairs and walks up towards her room.

 _She obviously feels something for him too._

Her seat now empty, I make the move to sit beside Charlie. He doesn't look in my direction, but instead searches for meaning in his whiskey. Something else I can understand. But drinking isn't going to be helpful to him in this situation - he needs advice, and someone to tell him that he's either doing well or is a complete shit. Perhaps I can fill that role. At the very least, we can talk about it while everyone else has gone up to bed.

"Listen, mate," I start, attempting tact. "What's going on with you and Hermione?"

"Why does it matter?" he parries. I falter. It _doesn't_ matter, I guess, not really. "It's nothing, nothing worth saying anything about." He watches the flickering flames before us. "It's just all very... Confusing. I don't know where we stand, and I want to know. Jesus." Charlie sighs heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. Then he shakes his head in amusement.

I grin, too. "Sounds like there's plenty to say."

"Yeah," he laughs. "Bloody women."

"What's the problem?"

"I don't know. I just wish she would acknowledge that there's something between us - that we could get to somewhere that's not the limbo between friends and... Not just friends, you know?" I nod in agreement. "Wherever the hell we are, I want us to be somewhere. Fuck, it's hard to explain."

The fire crackles and pops loudly in the hearth. Its red-orange glow fills the room, stretching out past us, flickering.

"Have you actually spoken to her?" I ask. It's so hard to know what to say. Women do seem confusing, but I've been in love with the same man my whole adult life. I wouldn't know how to woo a woman with a wand to my head. "She definitely seems to like you."

Charlie laughs to himself again, as though a sarcastic remark had crossed his mind. "We've spoken, but we haven't exactly gotten anywhere. We talked about it once, but that was it. Maybe she's trying to ignore me - make her life easier."

"Easier, but still painful." I pause to take a sip of my whiskey. "Have you spent any time together, just the two of you?"

"Not as much as I would like," he admits.

Charlie takes a breath, thinking about his next words. I see it, resting in his eyes. The want to say something more, to try and understand. I know the look too well to even try to ignore it. For months, even years, I had tried to comprehend why I was in love with my friend, and why I couldn't bring myself to ask that Marlene on a date when I knew she liked me - why I couldn't stop laughing at Remus' strange jokes and odd haircut. I tried to figure out why I was in love with him, and how to get him to feel the same.

"What do you think, Sirius?" Charlie asks, finally. "What should I be doing?"

I smile.

"First thing you gotta do is make sure you know what you want. Then, my friend, you need to talk to her. Tell her how you feel - all that mushy crap." He nods in response. "If it's meant to be, it'll happen. Trust me."

He thanks me, already sinking back into a place of thought.

I wander up to bed, considering exactly where Remus is right now, with his wife and his child, without me.

Just because love conquers all, it doesn't mean that one type of love will always conquer another. I have always loved Remus, and I always will, in so many different ways. He loves me too, just not in the way that I had always hoped for. Maybe Charlie will be more successful.

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	80. Chapter 80: Potter and Zabini

**HoH Ravenclaw, Short, Harry and Blaise, WC: 1530**

 **AU in which Potter and Zabini are spies! Dun dun duuunnnnn**

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"I don't like this," Harry muttered into his comms unit, feet shuffling against the squeaky linoleum floor. His partner tutted loudly in his ear but didn't speak. They both knew it would throw them off, and this mission was too high-risk to even say a word that might be out of place. Instead of furthering commenting on his worries, Harry glanced around at his surroundings.

He stood in queue in the most ornate bank he had ever seen. Marble walls glinted back the ceiling light shafts, and gold-leaf railings reflected images of the vendors and the customers. The patterns on the wall were loud and obtrusive. In its ostentatiousness, the Bank of Erised was the most famous in the world. In terms of APR, not so much. The bank was also known to be detrimental to those who couldn't pay back loans fast enough. It was positioned on some of the most expensive land in the region, and owned over half of the millionaire stock hold.

Big property, big money. That's what they were told in the briefing.

"Alright, Harry, we've just had three more enter on the East side of the building, all wearing the exact uniform as before. Again, no face show due to the shadow. Hopefully your suit will record though as it goes on. Can you confirm that your recording device is working?" Blaise Zabini asked through the earpiece. Harry wiped his left hand over his mouth to show a confirmation. "Thanks. We'll just wait until it plays out. Not long now, and the queue is being held up by Mrs Robinson." Harry coughed to hide a laugh. Two people looked around to glare at him. The bank was so silent that any noise disturbance was unusual to them. He apologised.

 _Trust Blaise to make a pop-culture reference at a time like this_ , he thought.

The mission was simple enough, despite all the trouble they had going about it.

Two weeks ago, the Public Protection Control was given an anonymous tip-off regarding a robbery that was going to take place at the bank on this date. The tip-off was passed onto a secret agency who worked just outside the boundaries of the government. They call it Dumbledore's Army. And Harry and Blaise are just two of the many who work within the agency, working towards protection for everyone, but in a slightly more underground manner. For this mission in particular, Harry was going undercover to record the robbery and try to make a case against those involved. It also meant that there would be one person, disguised, in amongst the public who could attempt to control the situation.

That's what they hoped, anyway.

"Not long now, Potter," Blaise encouraged, grimacing from inside the grubby Ford Fiesta parked ten blocks from the bank. "Can you see any action from inside? I know we're seeing your camera, but your eyes are better than the cameras."

"A compliment," Harry breathed, smiling discreetly.

Blaise scowled half-heartedly. "Don't count on it every time. Can I confirm, is there anything else happening?"

Harry wiped his right hand across his mouth, signalling a no. Nothing yet. If that was a good thing, he didn't know. It was difficult doing a job like this, being in a somewhat private sector. It was difficult because governance was controversial, but they couldn't sink to a vigilante level.

The comms unit crackled. Harry coughed, asking for confirmation of what was happening. There was no voice on the other end of the line. Then he yawned loudly, hoping to get a signal from Blaise, or Hermione, or anyone else who might have eyes on the goings on of outside. More than a few people looked at him that time, as if demanding he not be so rude as to be tired in such a place. But this was no time for apologies.

Crackle. _Harry.. Visual... Unit display... Confirm... CONFIRM!_ Blaise's voice was coming through very quietly. Almost as if his distance had increased tenfold.

Harry ran through the options in his head. If the comms wasn't functioning, it was also likely that the recording device was faulty, and that his team didn't have eyes on the situation. One option would be to abort the mission, in case his team was in jeopardy. This would mean leaving the bank, with the civilians inside, and most certainly not getting any idea on who the robbers would be. Although it might benefit the squad, there was no way he could justify leaving the mission. Not with so many lives at risk and a huge shot at taking down a large company of terrorists.

His comms crackled again, and Blaise's voice managed to break through the static.

" _Continue with the mission, our live is fuzzy but the device should work. Be_ -" and Harry's partner was cut off again.

He liked to think Blaise was wishing him well. Maybe 'be careful' or 'be safe'. It was more likely that Blaise would have chosen the less-friendly 'Be less stupid' approach.

A buzzer sounded once in the room, loud and clear. All staff members behind the windows looked towards their screens, open-mouthed, staring, horrified. Then, hurriedly, everything was action stations. Lights were flashing, someone was on the phone - a brunette girl, with dark glasses and a smattering of freckles - and the customers were starting to panic. Harry could sense the anxiety in the air.

It was happening.

The goal wasn't to look out of the ordinary. With this in mind, Harry began calling through to the windows, copying other people, asking for help or understand. He shouted at the panes of glass, demanding an explanation, all the while whilst calculating his exit strategy without Blaise on his side. The odds were not ideal, but they had gone through the details of the mission enough times - in the meeting rooms, on the plane, in the car, and over the comms when Harry had been walking the ten blocks to the bank.

"I don't like this," he murmured again, almost hoping Blaise would quip in. No such luck. It wasn't just the nature of the mission that bothered him, but the set up. Anonymous tips were rarely good things, but if the government trusted, they were told to trust it too. And Harry being there didn't guarantee that there would be no casualties. He could just be there, in amongst victims, waiting for an opportune moment. How would he even get out of a situation, if one arose? He had no weapons, no ammo, no communication outside. There was nothing except the odds.

Gunshots sounded throughout the building. Harry wished he had a vest on, but that would, again, have been far too obvious. If he was shot and _didn't die_ it might have raised a few red flags to the enemy, as such.

A few people screamed, others looked confused. Idiots. In his periphery, Harry assessed the situation - the people, their weaknesses and strengths, and he wished that Blaise had come in with him to help somehow. Again, another pointless wish.

There were twelve people in the queue where Harry was. Three females and eleven males. Around the floor there were another nineteen, bringing the total up to thirty one. One pregnant woman, four children, and a dog. Ten elderly. Those were the people in need of the most protection, and those were the people Harry opted to stick close by. He could overcome these odds. He could overcome the odds that said that maybe eight of these people would end up dead.

Three more gunshots. Fired in quick succession from the same gun, Harry deducted. That meant there was only one of however many mercenaries who was trigger-happy. That was better than all of them, by a long shot.

Ten seconds of silence followed this.

One. Two. His heart beat fast against his rib cage.

Three.

Four. The guide dog began to snuffle at his owner's feet.

Five.

Six. Seven. Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

The doors to the back rooms burst open with an explosion, followed by a procession of six, heavily-armed, burly men. Harry took in their size and weight ratio, determining whether he could take any of them on, given an opportunity. He didn't want to come out of this a hero, but he wasn't going to be a coward if the situation came to it. It was difficult ground, that much was strikingly obvious.

They should have done the mission a different way.

"Everybody get on the ground and be quiet!" bellows the largest of the six. "Hands behind your heads!"

"Hush, Mambo," quivers an elderly lady to her guide dog. The golden Labrador doesn't comply, but barks loudly in the face of a terrorists ski mask. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, he's new." The dog was obviously young, but well-trained.

A rough-placed boot to its hindquarters, then head, knocked it dead.

 _"This is not a hostage situation. We have deactivated every cell block in this area, and every internet connection. You will not get out alive."_

Harry stood, horrified. No way. This was not happening.

"Don't waste your prayers," another of the terrorists said, a grin in his tone. "Have a nice sleep."

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	81. Chapter 81: Bill Weasley, Cursebreaker

**Houses Competition. Ravenclaw, HoH. Prompts: Once Upon a Time (1), Bill Weasley (2), "You're going to be trouble, aren't you?" (3) - WC: 2932**

 **Basis: Bill is a freelance cursebreaker. He is sent to Storybrooke to help them out with a sort of curse they have not encountered before.**

 **AN: Likely to become a full-length story in time.**

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I tug on the ponytail at the base of my neck. Mum isn't right, I don't need to cut it. I actually much prefer it at this length. But that doesn't mean that I'm not hyper aware of the fact that she thinks it's scruffy, which means that other people also think it looks scruffy. Due to the nature of the meeting I'm going into, maybe I should have had a haircut first. Just a trim.

I'm not even sure that I shaved.

Yesterday, I received an urgent owl to come to the Ministry of Magic this morning, for a meeting with a Ministry Official regarding my job. As I'm currently working somewhat freelance for various Ministry departments, I honestly thought I was going to be fired. I spent all of last night thinking over everything I had done, every procedure I might not have followed, and each comment I made to people. What if I'd said the wrong thing, missed out a step, and things had worsened?

A brunette girl looks up from her desk three feet away from me. She sends a nod in my direction.

Time to go in.

A gold plaque states the name of the person who occupies the office. Mr. Archibald Wensum. I knock three times, sparing one more glance towards the pretty girl and deciding that she's not that pretty after all. I think I prefer blondes. Then I open the door and step inside.

Mr. Wensum is sitting at an elaborate, mahogany desk, fingers steepled like a supervillain. He doesn't stand when I reach out a hand, but shakes it from his leather seat. The handshake is weak and clammy. Internally, I cringe. Externally, I smile politely and sit in the proffered chair opposite him. This all feels so alien.

"We have another job for you," he starts, leaning back.

I exhale in relief. That means I'm not losing my job, they're just giving me another one.

"Hold on, this needs discussion," Mr. Wensum continues. He reaches for a drawer in the desk and retrieves a large, manilla file from inside. _That's the case?_ Shit. "It's a large job, and it will require an enormous amount of willpower and intelligence, no doubt of which you are capable. But it has been agreed that you will need a full briefing before you go in, as they say, willy nilly."

"Okay," I muse, intrigued. What could be so different? What could make this one so much more complicated that we need to have a full discussion on the proceedings? My eye catches on a flickering light in the back corner of the room. Obviously Mr. Wensum has been experimenting with Muggle technology and failing to some extent. Irrelevant, however.

"Shall we proceed?" Wensum asks.

I nod, thinking get the hell on with it.

"Were going to send you to another realm."

"You're what?" I ask, laughing in ridicule at the government official sitting across the table, his Ministry ID glaring back at me. The official stares back icily, not seeming to find it funny in the slightest. Which is extremely confusing. "You have to be joking. You can't actually do that, right?"

He coughs politely. "Mr. Weasley, I assure you that we can. And we will," he states. "We do, however, need you to take this matter more seriously, and to also understand the consequences of taking this job. You have to comprehend that this is of high risk, and of high importance." He smiles wryly. "You will be paid in kind. Fifty thousand galleons per day of work."

"For just this job? How long are you expecting this job to last, exactly?"

I swear to Merlin, my mouth has fallen down to beyond the ground, and my stomach has dropped about thirty million fathoms.

"However long it takes. It needs doing."

"Okay, say I take the job," I start. "How am I going to get there, wherever it is."

Instantly, I can see that I've surprised him. Did he think I wouldn't accept the job? Perhaps I've mistaken this look for one of cold delight. It's possible. The way his eyes are slightly widened, one eyebrow twitching to be raised in amusement. And a smile at his thin lips.

"So, will you take the job? I need confirmation in writing." From the air, Mr. Wensum retrieves a long scroll, the bottom of it landing just where my hands rest. "Sign on the dotted line please, Mr. Weasley."

For a single, salient moment, I pause.

But then I shrug, manifest a quill, and scribble my signature.

"No time to lose," Mr. Wensum mutters, standing quickly. I follow suit, a little alarmed by his suddenness. He goes to a cupboard I didn't see before and throw open its doors. Inside, I see a most peculiar thing. Says the wizard, I know. "The hat is your way through."

"You're joking."

"Mr. Weasley, I am not. It was sent to us, we think. It came through a portal of its own and we've been experimenting since." He glances quickly in my direction and gestures me closer. "One rule you must adhere to. The same number of people that go in must come out. You cannot bring anyone back with you."

I laugh. "Would I need to?"

Mr. Wensum doesn't say a word in reply.

"Alright, show me how this bloody thing works," I sigh.

"Tap the rim with your wand," he says, setting the hat down on the carpeted floor. I follow his instruction. "This imbues it with your magic. Now, spin it. This will create the portal." I raise an eyebrow. This is insane. Spin a hat and make a portal. Merlin, what have I gotten myself into?

"Just do it, Mr. Weasley."

"Fine," I grumble.

Slowly, I bend down and squat before it. Then, with one quick flick, I spin the hat.

The room is filled with a dark purple, swirling magic, like a vortex sucking us into the satin lining of the hat. Sounds are muted by it and I have to shout to be heard above the rumbling noise all around us.

"What exactly do you want me to do? Where am I going?" I shout.

"Storybrooke," he replies in a bellow. "Break the curse in Storybrooke before they all perish - that's what the message said, anyway."

We look to each other one final time. I nod.

Then I jump.

I guess I expected to feel like I was apparating. That old, sickening feeling of no breath and not enough room to think or feel. The tug in my navel. This is nothing like those feelings, not in the slightest. It's as if I've just jumped from our whirling, shimmering room, and simply landed in another, this one filled with doors.

"Storybrooke," I announce, hoping the hat is intuitive enough to guide me.

Lo and behold, a door behind me glimmers gold and opens on a rainy scene. Looks normal enough. Nothing horrendously special.

I shrug and enter. The door closes behind me.

Rain drenches me in seconds. Must be Britain with this level of downpour. Merlin, help me. Except, this is another realm. So it can't be the Britain I know - it's not even the world I know.

There's something else in the air as well that I recognise immediately.

"Magic," I mutter, sighing heavily.

That means that this realm is one that knows magic, and probably all too well. I can sense the familiarity of the magic - like oxygen needed to breathe. And yet, it doesn't look like anywhere magic. The hat rests on the gravel road behind me, which stretches out into an empty street. There are a few shops, including a pawn shop, a diner, and a clocktower ticking away above the public library.

It all looks quiet, but I can _feel_ the curse. Just like I always do. I feel it, living and breathing like a weed wrapped around this town, Storybrooke. Suffocating it.

"You're going to be trouble, aren't you?" I ask aloud. I probably look completely crazy, not that there's anyone around to observe me speaking to the air. Instinctively, I check that no one is looking. Thank Merlin, they're not.

I am completely lost. Understandable. What if they don't understand me in this new world? What if they speak another language? What if they attack me? Merlin forbid it. Nevertheless, I need to lay low and gather intel. That's what I would normally do, anyway. Though, technically, normally I would speak to some sort of Ministry official or informant first.

Deftly, I pick the hat from the road and tuck it under my arm. The diner also appears to be a place to stay overnight. It looks quiet enough.

Granny's it is.

The front door bangs open loudly when I stumble through, and the empty room matches up with my expectations. I glance around, looking for a sign of life amongst the plastic and the metal, the menus and the napkins, and the battered jukebox in the far corner.

"Excuse me, can I help you?" an irritated voice hollers from behind me. I whip around. Good, English. That's going to be helpful. "Do I know you? If you're here for food, we're all out."

"For a diner that's pretty - never mind," I finish, seeing the stoney-faced elderly woman glaring back at me. Merlin's beard, she is a fearsome woman. "I'm here to break the curse. I've been sent from… The government -"

"Where's the Hatter?" someone else interrupts. "What have you done with Jefferson - that's his hat."

I spin around. "I have no idea who Jefferson is, but I was given this hat."

The woman before me strikes a power-pose I know all too well from my mother. Hands on her hips, a furious smile on her face - a smile that says she knows exactly how things are about to go down. Except, this time, the blonde woman before me is wrong. I've done nothing to make her angry as far as I know.

"Cut the crap, ginge," she instructs. "What the hell are you doing here? No one comes to Storybrooke. And especially not with our friend's hat."

"Merlin, you people are fun," I laugh, staring around at the two women who face me. Their stony expressions. Bright, grey eyes. But there's something else there, a lack of stability. Bursting through the silence, a tummy rumble that overpowers anything any of my younger, hungrier brothers have ever felt. "Hungry, too."

The older woman glares. "There's no food around here."

"You are literally inside a diner." To make my point, I make eyes at the kitchen.

"Just shut up," the blonde woman growls. "You're coming with me to the station. We can see how long you'll last with the rest of us and this crapping curse - "

"Hey!" I shout out. My arms flail like some sort of inept chicken. No such luck. Maybe I should have been a little more to the point about why I'm here instead of just going straight for banter about the ridiculous portal-hat that appears to have belonged to a friend of Storybrooke. "I'm here about the curse. I have a wand! I swear, I'm here from the Ministry!"

"He's crackers," the old lady muses.

In a hurried movement, I break away from the two of them and whip out my wand.

"Presumably you've seen magic before." They nod, transfixed as though I am a horse preparing to charge. "Good. I can feel it. I'm here to help. So you help me to help you and we can all go about our business like muggles. Capiche?" The blonde woman raises an eyebrow. "Or I will knock you all out, wipe your memory, and leave you cursed."

Silence, for five agonising seconds.

Then, relief.

The two of them deflate, and the blonde woman steps closer to me.

"I don't know how Jefferson found you, but thank God you're here." Who is this bloody Jefferson they keep going on about? "You're British, right? You'll get along great with Aurora and Phillip when that swings around. For now, this curse. What do you need to know?"

The blonde woman takes me to the police station where her parents - who look exactly the same age as her, if not younger - are waiting. We spend about thirty minutes going through the particulars of it all. It's always a horrendously slow and painful procedure. They talk about the town and it's origins - fairy-tales, crazy! - and they talk about the kind of people that live in Storybrooke. And, by extension, the kind of people being hurt by the curse.

This isn't the first curse here, either. Unusual, certainly, but not unheard of.

I try not to reveal too much about myself, the Ministry, or the Wizarding World. It's easy enough, until they start asking questions in return. Things about my job, why I'm there, and who sent me.

"So you're a fairy, right? Because you have a wand?" Emma, the blonde woman, asks, pointing at my left breast pocket where I keep it. I swear to Merlin, my mouth falls open. "Do you have wings? I've not seen a male fairy before, but I guess these things happen."

"Just no," I reply, hardly about to speak through mortification. "Wizard, me. Not a fairy." Emma raises an eyebrow, but stays quiet for the moment. "So… Water, food, some speech. Anything else it's affecting?"

David and Snow, Emma's parents, look ominously at each, and then at their daughter.

"Magic," David starts. Snow grabs his hand in comfort. "The magic is different. Neither Emma nor Regina can practice in the same way as before. Not even potions are making the crops grow. Everything is… Dead." Dramatic, but true.

"There aren't any known villains in the town right now either," continues Snow in her soft voice. "Everyone is pretty good. Killian - sorry, Hook - is with Emma. Regina - the evil queen - is fine too, much better now. Even Mr Gold is doing okay. He and Belle have a child together, and it's such a relief -"

"Mom, stop," Emma interrupts. Snow lets out a breath. Clearly everyone is a bit het-up about this. "Can you help?"

I smile wryly. Merlin, I miss my family. My mother's warm hugs and excellent food. My father's incessant ramblings about everything he loves and finds interesting. My brothers clamouring for attention and displays of magic. My sister, calling for me from her cot.

They're not in this realm, and I wouldn't wish it upon them. Because if this curse isn't broken, all of the people here will not survive another three days - even with the resources they currently have.

"I can try."

"Thank you, Bill," David murmurs, gripping my hand a little too tightly. Must be a weird, prince thing. "Where do we start?"

Good point. "Considering all of your previous curses have been performed by people, I'll start with that. I can track to a basic point where the curse began or originates." The trio nod in understanding. "Great, okay."

This is a bit awkward.

I pull out my wand again and start the incantation. Lo and behold they all stare at me. In all honesty, it feels like I'm performing magic to muggles, which is so very wrong. But if they're not liars, then Emma holds magic herself - so they will all have witnessed it before.

"Regina should be here," Emma mutters to her mother. Snow offers a pacifying smile, to which Emma replies, "I know. She's looking after Henry. But still, it feels weird talking about magic when we barely know it. And not having her here."

"I know, honey - oh my goodness, look at that!" Snow bursts in exaltation at the golden stream that suddenly erupts from the tip of my wand. The magic twists and ripples through the air, leading us outside and into the main street of Storybrooke. "Is it leading to the curse?"

"Yes," I nod fervently, standing up. "Come on, no time to lose."

With that, I start to chase the ribbon of shimmering yellow, around the station and out of the doors to the road, the trio in hot pursuit. The magic glimmers and stretches out, but it's nowhere near as far away as I would have expected. In fact, it falls short at the Pawn shop, resting outside as if having encountered some sort of barrier.

A gust of sudden wind blows the glittering-gold magic into nothing.

"I guess we found our villain," I joke. "Who is it?"

Emma sighs heavily. "Rumpelstiltskin."

Ah yes. The most famous dark wizard there is in this realm.

"Right." I almost laugh, but it doesn't seem too funny anymore. Maybe that paying fee was correct after all. Especially if the Ministry expected me to die on the job. "Anyone want anything from the shop? No? Fair enough."

Funeral march music plays in the space between my ears. Death isn't exactly welcome at this early stage in life, but I guess I will face it at some point for this job. Why not now? Out of all the possible future curses I would have broken, and all the ones I have broken already - why not this one?

The answer is fairly simple. I don't really want to die.

So I take those steps toward the pawn shop, take out my wand, and prepare for a battle that might just about rival the darkness in my own realm.

"Hello, dearie," he greets, crooning, stepping out into the dying sunlight.

"Rumpelstiltskin, I presume." He bows courteously. "Great. Let's duel."

He smiles, a dark, horrifying grin.

"Yes. Let's."

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	82. Chapter 82: The Mark

**Houses Competition. Ravenclaw Head of House, Round Six. Drabble, Prompt: "You weren't supposed to see that,", WC: 362. AU story.**

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"You weren't supposed to see that," Draco remarks, staring down at his arm, tattooed with the Dark Mark curling around his forearm, scarring his skin. I recognise it instantly, having seen it on so many other Death Eaters that we have captured within the Order.

 _He's not supposed to even have that..._

My blonde friend - or foe, because who knows at this point - pulls his shirt sleeve down again, covering up the abhorrent stain upon his skin. I can't decide whether he is looking at me guiltily, or whether he is plotting a way to end my suddenly miserable life with one easy twirl of his wand. I'm not sure which I would prefer. It's not pleasant to think that he has been hiding such a past from me. It's no less pleasant to think that he should kill me now, after everything we've been through and done together.

Voldemort has been operating throughout Hogwarts for the last twenty or so years. It's difficult to tell who is a Death Eater and whose allegiance lies outside the Darkness these days.

Draco had told me he was different; he told me that he was like me.

I love - _loved_ \- him.

But I feel as though my heart has completely frozen over.

"Hermione, it's really not what you -" he pauses, thinking. As if it's difficult to explain that he either does or doesn't want me dead. There is no in-between with that. "It's complicated, and I can't even explain it to you right now. There's only one way to take this back." He seems to mull it over in his head while he speaks, as though his conscience is talking separate from his own thoughts.

"What the hell are you talking about?" I demand, beyond confused. Clearly there is no good explanation for this, otherwise he would have been a little more forthcoming. "Draco, just tell me why you have this thing on your arm."

He shakes his blonde head hurriedly, as if swatting away flies with his hair.

I can see in his eyes that he's decided what to do.

Draco raises his wand.

"I love you." He takes a deep breath. " _Obliviate_."

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	83. Chapter 83: The Cracked Cauldron

**Houses Competition. Ravenclaw Head of House, Round Six. Standard, Prompt: Cracked cauldron, WC: 1155**

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One minute we're in Potions, the next we are somewhere completely foreign.

If I had to guess how it happened, I would say that it would be because of that stupid cracked cauldron. It's possibly entirely to blame. And to think we didn't even notice before the golden liquid had started to burst its way through the small gap, cracking it further, and spilling out onto the table we were working on. We'd been engulfed in a sudden - and wildly dramatic - burst of golden dust, distinct with the scent of burning toast and freshly-mowed grass (my least and most favourite smells).

Ta dah, we are in a field, staring up at an enormous castle, desperately trying to recall where on Earth this place could be. I glance sideways at Malfoy; maybe this is his house and he's kidnapping all of us. But he just looks as blank as the rest of us. Great.

"Does anyone have any bright ideas where in Merlin's name we have been magically transported to," Professor Snape cuts through our stunned silence, his monotonous voice a small comfort in this unfamiliar place. Never did I think I would consider Snape to be a comfort - but I guess that's what happening. Maybe I should also expect Malfoy to be polite, and for Harry to become a coward, and flying pigs, impossible beings, Voldemort to crack a smile at a puppy. All of those insane, ridiculous things. That's what kind of a world we must be in if Snape is my comfort.

"Professor, might I suggest that this has something to do with the potion leaking all over the floor?" Malfoy asks, stepping closer to Snape, a smirk beginning to sweep over his features. Snape merely nods, waving Malfoy away. "I also saw it come from Weasley's cauldron - not a surprise really, given the state of it and everything else he owns -"

"Malfoy, be quiet," Snape mutters, stalking away from his star pupil. Again, this is so out of the ordinary that I am half inclined to thinking that Snape has been replaced by someone masking as him using Polyjuice Potion. "Miss Granger, any ideas?"

I balk at being addressed in such a fashion. Almost... Nicely.

"Yes, Professor," I start, shocked. "Maybe it was something to do with the nature of the potion. I'm not sure what Ron was mixing, but it certainly had the associated scents of the Potion of Physical Disorientation - I read about it last week."

He nods in reply. "Very good. I would imagine Weasley was attempting to complete his Potion of Discolouration and added too many Wimblebat eggs."

"That was my assumption, Professor," I continue.

"Okay then, I will start to collect the reverse ingredients and return us to the rightful place." Snape turns to the rest of the class, who look on, utterly bewildered as to the conversation. I myself do not understand why he was civil to me and rude to Malfoy.

I'm almost convinced I spot a flying pig just coming above the trees for a moment. But I soon shake myself from it and move away from Snape to where Harry and Ron stand, looking flummoxed and frozen in shock.

"Hermione, what in Merlin's saggy bollocks was that all about?" Ron demands, halfway between laughing and shouting. "Snape being nice to you? Listening to you? For a moment I was convinced I'd fallen asleep in class, but not even I could dream something so mental."

I laugh, more lightly than I would have done otherwise. Because, I mean, we're possibly stuck in an imaginary world - it all depends on exactly what Ron was thinking about when he put in the extra eggs. Maybe he was thinking back to a fairy-tale, in which case this should be a doddle, while Snape collects the reversal ingredients. Maybe he was thinking about the dream he had, which is why he thought he was asleep.

"Have you had a dream like this recently, Ron?" I ask quickly. If this is his dream, he knows what happens next. And, while we are independent from the dream, things in the dream will still happen to us. For example, if there is a huge giant that comes bursting through the trees, it might kill us. Who knows?

"Yeah, last night. It was crazy - like the world had turned upside down." He scratches his head absentmindedly and smiles. "You were there - but you almost didn't look like you. Harry was there too - it was funny actually, usually Harry plays the hero card, but Neville was up and at 'em with the Sword of Gryffindor, taking off dragon heads and defeating the devil. A good idea for a book, I reckon. Not that I'd write it."

"So say the dream just started, what happened next?" Harry asks, cottoning on.

Ron laughs again. "Classic Weasley dream. The dragon appeared!"

Harry and I catch eyes and hurriedly look around for a sign of trouble. Nothing yet. That's good. Maybe this won't be as I expect, and we're not be inside one of Ron's ridiculous dreams -

CRASH!

Trees are falling in a churning, disappearing fashion, as if crumpled by an enormous beast. A blasting of heat rolls through the forest. I can see fire, glowing, bulbous, through the thicket.

Dragon.

"What happened next, Ron?" Harry demands, hand on Ron's shoulder. "This is important. Your dream is here, we're in it."

Ron grins, as though Harry is pulling his leg. As though on cue, a momentous growling comes from the thicket along with a sudden gust of wind. The dragon rises above the trees, grey eyes seeming to have flecks of gold flame and burnt cities buried within.

"Shit," I mutter. "It's huge!" Harry raises an eyebrow. "Shut up. Wands out, we're taking down a dragon."

"We can't kill a dragon, Charlie would kill us!" Ron protests as he gingerly pulls his wand from his robe pocket. "Either way, we'll end up dead. Let's just... Lightly maim it, or subdue it."

"Great idea, Ronald," I say sarcastically. "Let's subdue a dragon. Sometimes I wonder where your brain is even kept. In your ear? It must be that small -"

"Stop arguing," Harry interrupts.

A burning sensation starts to creep over my palm and fingers. I look down, but there's nothing wrong. The burning covers my fingers, my arm, and feels like hot liquid running over me. What the hell is going on?

 _"Miss Granger, are you back with us?" Snape's voice cuts through my own thoughts. "You were asleep, and, as you can see, your potion is currently burning your arm."_

 _I open my eyes, and see the golden liquid covering me. Why didn't he say anything sooner?_

 _"I imagine you had a nice dream, but now you're back to reality. Fifty points from Gryffindor for your cracked cauldron. And one hundred points from Gryffindor for falling asleep in my lesson. Now wake up and sort out that spill."_

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	84. Chapter 84: Pride is Dangerous

**Houses Competition. Ravenclaw Head of House, Round Six. Additional, Prompt: Pride, WC: 837**

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 _Don't let them show. Just like Elsa; even your hair is white blonde and your skin is colder than ice and the frozen atmosphere. Don't let your feelings show._

These are the thoughts that plague my head every day. Every day in this life is clouded over by my own anxiety, and by stress that threatens to suffocate, and panic attacks that throw themselves at me in times of disorientation. The aching, deafening, horrifying depths of depression that I fall into - more so when I'm alone.

I have fallen into the traps that my family set, about pride and privilege and prejudice. Even though I read all of these tips on how to be better, on how to get better, my pride overrides everything.

One key thing the articles say is to tell people how you're feeling. To express your feelings aloud is to make it known to yourself, rather than being about letting someone else know your trials and tribulations. They say that you shouldn't keep it all inside, especially if the emotions are bursting from within, exploding out at horrible, random intervals. Which they are. Just last Tuesday I was in Tesco, checking the ingredients for a new cake batter for my mother, and I felt the sudden clenching of my heart, and the box fell from my fingers. All breath left me. I was suffocating on my own thoughts.

Even now, I'm not sure what set it off. I must have read something, thought of something else, and my brain shut down completely. It was all I could do to not sink down to the ground and hold onto the shelves for some semblance of support and guidance.

During those times, it's difficult to hold the emotions inside. It's difficult to tell people you can't breathe when you cannot speak for lack of breath. It's even more difficult to tell them that you're having a panic attack. But when it was finally over, and a middle-aged mother asked me if I was okay, I told her that I had choked on a walnut I'd been eating.

I told a damned, odious lie to an innocent woman. I'm trash. My pride is worth too much, and it should be worth nothing at all.

I didn't want her to think I was weak. I don't want anyone to think that I am weak.

The rest of my family are exactly the same. They maintain an image for everyone else, and they break down behind the thick curtains of our household, and our lives.

We appear wealthy - we _are_ _wealthy_ \- but we are not so in love and companionship. My father has a mistress, and my mother and he do not share a bedroom. In public, they are blissfully in love. Really, they despise each other. We do not eat food together, but separately, on our own terms. The only reason I was buying my mother cake mix was so she could take it in for a work colleague and make things seem as though she is the baker, the homemaker, the brilliant mother and astonishingly perfect wife. It could not be further from the truth, and it is all to fuel the lies and make sure people believe that we are better than the truth.

We are no better than other people. I spend my days withering away from the trippings of mental health. Weeping, eating nothing because I cannot stomach anything, aching, unable to move for fear, suffocation, or some other ailment that becomes my excuse for the given day.

The trick is to fight through the pain most days. Know that there will be people watching, and you should appear strong and brave and honest. You should appear nonchalant about how boring your life is, while last night you were suffocating, screaming into your pillow, fighting the urge to reach for the antidepressants you never went to the doctor to get.

Fight through the pain to appear normal. Struggle when you are away from the people.

Struggle when pride allows it.

Don't show the world that you are struggling. My motto is to hide it - hide everything, remove myself from my emotional problems. If I remove myself from my own problems, separate myself from what is going on at home, then I can pretend some semblance of normality and feel better.

That is what should happen. I want to show the world that I am normal, and by extension show myself that I can get over this. I can be better than the gutting pain, the stabbing aches, the suffocating, the crying, the screaming, the want to be nothing more than dust on someone else's shoe.

That's what I want. And hopefully one day I will be better than the pain, own it, and I can be the Draco Malfoy that everyone else sees.

But I'm not. I am an image glued to the front of what remains of myself.

I am far less than what I pretend to be, and what I am.

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	85. Chapter 85: Was This My Best Choice?

**Houses Competition. Ravenclaw Year 2, Round Six. Drabble, Prompt: I didn't have the full story when I made this choice., WC: 413**

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I didn't have the full story when I made this choice.

But who is to say that any of us have the full story when making any decision? I guarantee you that every choice made leads to more than the decision-maker thought they were bargaining for. Case in point, when James and I were out at a restaurant and I looked through the menu and made the fateful decision of veggie burger - bean burger with mozzarella and lentils. I'd thought it was a good choice, I explored all the options, and yet it was possibly the most disgusting thing I have ever eaten in my life.

And I've had haggis.

I hadn't known that I hate lentils, and that a veggie burger would not be a good choice.

It always sounds so dramatic when people say that - that choice does not guarantee good results - because choice implies a decision having to be made based on free will. This time was entirely different. I was stuck between impossible options - so-called choices.

I didn't know that my son was going to be You Know Who's enemy. I only knew that he was hunting us, and that I had to do everything in my power to protect my family.

I had no idea of the full story - of what would happen to us all, if I just protected my son. I had no idea that he would defeat him, because of my protecting Harry. Standing in front of Harry's crib all those years ago, I hadn't intended to place any spell over my child, only hoped for him to be alive, and for Voldemort to leave him be for just a while longer. To let Harry live.

But Voldemort wasn't human enough. He cast the curse on my child, and was cursed himself. And that is only half of the story.

From this elapsed a terrorised life for my child.

And the full story resulted in death, after death, after death. Harry went through so much, he endured, and he was trialled time and time again.

I did not know that my child would have to bear so much trouble and turbulence throughout his life, all because I chose to protect him over letting him die first.

I hate that my love for him allowed him to be treated in such a way. But I am glad my sacrifice allowed him to live.

Even with the full story, I doubt I would have changed my choice.

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	86. Chapter 86: Burn

**Houses Competition. Ravenclaw Year 2, Round Six. Standard, Prompt: "You didn't hear it from me, but,", WC: 942**. **Muggle AU. With high school dramas.**

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High school is a blistering sea of whispers. By blistering I mean that it is both unbearable, and that it is painful. Heat rolls off tongues of practiced gossipers, is aimed at the likes of me; Hermione Granger, your common loser, swarmed by cool-kids and cold shoulders.

In your classic high school daydreams and nightmares are the two classes of people. Populars, and the losers. Categories break down from those two main branches, but that isn't as important - nerds, jocks, the friendless, the queen bees, for reference of the reader. These people do not mix, unless one requires something from the other. In this case, stereotypically the more popular kids require something from the losers - like tuition, or lunch money. Because they are popular, they are feared.

I, nor anyone else of my kin, do not wish to have my head flushed, or my books ruined, or my life made social hell by someone of intense media power and influence.

This is how the system works: We submit to our supposed superiors in the hopes that they will not crush our future and present lives to anyone who may matter further down the line.

That is, until today.

From the instant Draco Malfoy walks into our well-trodden halls, it is obvious that he is different.

Pale, flushed cheeks. White-blonde hair. He is casually well-kept, like any popular kid. And yet, he holds a book, and a good nature in his posture. Word is that he is wealthy, and that his father has enough money to support a mansion for their family, as well as giving away generous donations to many charitable causes.

On the surface, somehow, he seems harsh. Sharp lines and an icy gaze.

He throws me a burning look as we pass in the hallways, and I feel myself melt. I can't decide whether it is a positive or negative thing that I should feel that way with one look from him. Either way, I am uncomfortable with the connection.

"Draco Malfoy," Lavender tells me in our English Language class. "That's his name."

Parvati turns in her seat, discreetly so as not to disturb today's guest speaker. "The new kid? My god, he's hot isn't he?"

Beside me, Ginny cringes.

"He gave me a weird look. And I saw him being unkind to a Year Seven earlier," she argues. "Classic popular kid, in my opinion. He just needs to gel with the jocks, then he'll fit right in with the rest of that crappy bunch."

"What kind of weird look, Gin?" I ask, frowning.

She shrugs. "Like I was a freak, I guess." Parvati raises an eyebrow. "I mean, I was attempting the Chubby Bunny challenge at the time, so maybe it was understandable. But he made me feel super uncomfortable."

"Ladies!" hollers Professor Trelawney from the front of the room, her bulbous eyes latching onto our conversation and lack of paying attention. She is our guest speaker for today, having come from Edinburgh University to talk to us about Mystic Poetry, and her latest theory regarding it. Personally, I don't agree with her, but am not bothered enough to speak out. "Are you quite finished with your conversation?"

We stay silent, and she moves on without further question.

"Mystic Poetry. It is a connection of the mind and the body through words and sounds. Some say it is linked to Synaesthesia, but I believe it comes from…"

There are some classes that I don't enjoy.

As I'm exiting the classroom, my body slams into someone else.

"Watch it," he laughs. Except, the laugh is not as warm as I would expect. Certainly, it is not maniacal laughter, but it is not warm and kind. And despite this his eyes burn holes in mine.

This clandestine moment builds our clandestine relationship.

Draco Malfoy's eyes follow me around the room, seeming to sear my skin, searching for more than what I must have on display. Whenever he glances up from his thick poetry anthology, it is me he is looking at. His slavic looks catch the gazes of many other females in the year - arguably better-suited females, pretty females, females who would pay him attention - but he does not waiver from me.

"You didn't hear it from me, but," Parvati begins, "Malfoy is seriously into you."

I scoff. "Who else would I hear that kind of trash from? He looks at me as though he is trying to set me on fire."

She raises a suggestive eyebrow.

"Burning looks? That's a sure sign, right?" Parvati turns to the other girls. Lavender nods eagerly. Ginny shudders. She's still not a fan of his, not in the slightest. "He likes you, Hermione."

"And that's why he's spending all of his free periods with Pansy Parkinson?" I laugh. "Malfoy is just one of those boys who likes to think they're in control of every girl in the vicinity. I know nothing about him, and I hate that enough."

Despite myself, I feel him watching me.

And despite myself, I know I am doing exactly the same thing; this is how we exist in each others' company.

I notice him, his top button undone, hair wildly perfect. I notice that he pretends to read, but secretly observes the world around him. He is cooler than ice, but by no means popular - not unpopular either. He is detached from the world, and our strange looks of communication involve me in his bubble for just a while.

Relationship does not cover this, I think.

It is clandestine because perhaps my friends do not notice that, while he is staring at me, I am quite often staring back.

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	87. Chapter 87: It's Okay (To Be Happy)

**Houses Competition. Ravenclaw Head of House, Round Six. Additional, Prompt: Fury, WC: 1200**. **Muggle AU. Draco and Hermione are in a relationship.**

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"Draco, honey, it's time to get up," I murmur at the sound of the blaring morning alarm. He groans, as though physically in pain, but I know instantly what is going on. Even as he turns over, eyes closed, I'm already annoyed. "Come on, big day today. Monday morning - the start of a new week." I swipe my fringe away from my eyes, sitting upright. Maybe my moving can motivate him into getting up today.

He stretches. "I can work from home today."

Internally, I sigh. To the unknowledgeable onlooker, this may look like my boyfriend just wants to stay in bed a little longer, and that he wants to work from home in order to be closer to pyjamas and home-comforts in our fridge to vegetate on. However, this is not the case.

I can't remember the last time Draco left the house for work. Maybe it was two weeks ago? Three weeks ago?

I love him, so I don't sigh on the outside. Despite the chill that envelops me, I brush my hand over his shoulder in comfort, in the hope that he can feel more relaxed, and I shift myself from the bed we share. I love him, and I know him. I know that the anxiety is what keeps him in bed, what keeps him in the house, and what prevents him from engaging in social situations more often than not.

"If you're sure," I say, giving him one final out. He nods and rolls over, the duvet rolling with him.

Like every other day, I dress quickly and efficiently, and I leave the house in good time. I worry briefly about Draco, then push it from my mind for the moment. It shouldn't make me angry that he has the inability to leave the house, but it really does. Because, when he doesn't do those things, he doesn't do other things as well. Like helping me with the shopping, or cooking, or making himself vaguely presentable.

Sometimes, I go home and he hasn't moved from his pyjamas all day. Sometimes, he's simply brought his laptop into the bed and not done more than a cup of tea or a bowl of soup for sustenance.

He's a grown adult, he should be able to take care of himself.

"And he's too proud to admit that he has a problem," I'm venting to Ginny four hours later over our salad-filled lunch boxes. "Which is beyond frustrating. Because even if he was like this when he was younger, he should be over it, now, right?"

Ginny frowns. "I don't think things work like that, Hermione."

I stab at my salad. "They did for me." She starts to ask, but I can't bear the thought of people asking me about it. Instead, I interrupt with my short version of the truth. "I was like that - I was anxious, and afraid. Panic attacks, suffocating feeling, I wanted to die. For a _long time_. But life moves on." I shrug. Of course, I don't mean to be blasé about things, but I guess I decided I didn't want to be like that anymore. "I didn't want to cry in toilet stalls anymore. I grew up because I had to."

"It's not really about growing up," Ginny comments, raising an eyebrow. She doesn't approve of my anger at him, of my impatience, I think. "If you're right and Draco really does have problems, then you should try to support him -"

"I do support him!" I rage, throwing my arms up. "I cook, and I clean, and my money is the primary income. I go out by myself because he's too afraid to leave the house. It's not a relationship, it's literally just me supporting him." I sigh. "It just seems so obvious to find a solution, but he can't see that."

We rest for a few long seconds of silence, Ginny thinking over my words, and me angrily stabbing at a rogue piece of diced cucumber.

"Why are you really angry?" Ginny asks quietly. "Is it really about Draco?"

"Yes!" I shout, almost laughing at her painfully annoying tone. "Maybe. No?"

She rolls her eyes. "Okay, so what are you _actually_ angry about?"

Before I can either process the thought, someone else is hollering from across the canteen. It's Steve Davidson, from IT - where Draco works. I wave him over, already concerned. _What has happened now?_

"Hey, Hermione," he starts. I notice his nervousness - fumbling with keys and his phone, eyes moving swiftly from one point of focus to another without much time to take anything in. Maybe this is just him, or maybe something he needs to say to me is not a pleasant thing. "Is Draco in today? I haven't seen him, but he hasn't called in sick either."

I frown. "He said he was working from home today. Has he not logged on?"

"Um, no." Davidson falters. "Okay, no worries. I'll let you guys get on with your lunch…"

"That was weird," Ginny laughs. I glare back at her. "And totally not funny, I know. I think this is something you gotta take up with Draco, in all honesty. He needs to hear your thoughts, and you also need to understand a little more of what's going through his mind - how different it might be to what you were feeling when you felt it. Help him." She packs away her lunch box. "Take the rest of the day off - I'll let Georgia know. Just text me later."

"Okay," I murmur, smiling back sadly.

The first thought in my head when I arrive home is that the place is a mess. By which I mean it looks worse than it did when I left early this morning. That old, faithful fury returns to me in a sudden, burning blast. Dishes decorate the kitchen counter, the post lies abandoned on the doormat. So he obviously had time and energy enough to make food, but not to pick up several bills from the floor? And from the smell in the kitchen, it was a particularly pungent dinner - that he hasn't tried to even mask with any sort of febreeze. Stupid things, I know. But there's all this, and his total disrespect for our lives. I don't live in a relationship with this man, we just occupy the same, sad cage.

"Draco?" I call through the house. No reply. Anger sizzling its way through me, I stalk up the stairs. What, he can't be bothered to even reply? I know he's here. He hasn't left the house, the same as every day for so long.

I'm almost halfway to accusing him, yelling at him, expelling every feeling I've encountered in the last however many weeks.

Almost.

Because, as I round the landing, that's when I see him.

My heart falls flat. I crawl towards him on the floor, mouth agape in shock. Unable to speak, he doesn't look me in the eye through streaming tears and choking breaths. He's shaking. His laptop lies, forgotten, on the bed. There are scratch marks down his arms and legs, and his fingers are chafed raw from carpet burns.

The anger, the fury, dissipates from me instantly.

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	88. Chapter 88: The Last Brother

**Houses Competition. Head of House, Ravenclaw, Additional, 607-670 words, must be about a character from the Tales of Beedle the Bard, WC: 670**

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Ignotus Peverell sighed into the rushing wind. Another of his brothers was dead, and he was certain it had to do with the request the three of them had made of Death not more than six months ago. His oldest brother, Antioch, had asked for a powerful wand, and perished within a week. His second oldest brother, Cadmus, had asked for a way to bring back the dead.

This was understandable. Dear Cadmus had lost his beautiful bride mere days before their happy wedding day. He had wanted to bring her back more than anything.

It was a sad tale.

But he, Ignotus, had asked for an item to help him hide from death. The invisibility cloak had served him so well. Death had evaded him, despite the demise of his two other brothers. He had thought, for a time, that their deaths were punishment for their asking a favour of such a powerful being.

It would make sense, for Death would surely not forgive such favours so quickly. He was surely teaching them all a lesson - that you should not cheat him.

Karma, it seemed, was in play as well.

Ignotus tore up the letter informing him of Cadmus' departing. This would serve as nothing more than a reminder that he should, and could, cheat Death. He would do this for his brothers, and for his children. His children would be protected once he'd made an ally of Death himself.

He wore the cloak as often as he could, avoiding Death's keen eyes every time they glanced in his direction. He hid from Death, but not from life. His children grew, and he grew in age. His hair greyed, eyes wrinkled, and still Death had not claimed him.

He loved his children, and his wife, and their grandchildren. He loved being with his family, but he so dearly missed his brothers. He missed their eternal bravado, their confidence, and their brilliance in the magical arts. They had been exceptional wizards, and would always entertain. In dark times as these, Ignotus wished his brothers and he had not ventured across that ancient bridge and asked for those items, because then they would be here with him, laughing together, and performing odd tricks for their children.

Smiling, he pondered what Antioch's children might have been like.

Probably just as complicatedly arrogant and brilliant as their father.

Ignotus aged, and he aged well - well into his seventies, far older than most people lived to. His wife was long gone, and his heart ached to see her again, even in death. He knew it was time to go.

"Child," he beckoned his oldest son to him. Benedictus Peverell frowned and moved to his father's side, concerned. "I am old, as you might notice." Ignotus coughed for effect, making his son laugh. "This is no laughing matter, my son. I am to die soon."

"Father, you are immortal, I am convinced," Benedictus smiled, kneeling down to be at level with his father's rocking chair. "We have agreed on this. You will outlive us all."

Ignotus smiled back. "Perhaps."

"Well, there -"

" _However_ ," he interrupted his son, "I have chosen to not do so. You see, I was gifted a cloak many, many years ago, by an extraordinarily powerful being. It has kept me safe all this time while my kin have died around me. Once I give this cloak over, it can no longer keep me from Death, but I _must_ pass it on."

"What in Merlin's name are you talking about?" Benedictus asked.

From his shoulders, Ignotus pulled the invisibility cloak, in its shimmering glory.

"This cloak, Benedictus, will make you invisible. It will keep you from Death, for as long as you want or need." Benedictus looked at his father, now convinced he was mad as well as immortal. "Trust me. Take it."

He took the cloak, confused.

Slowly, surely, his father stood before him and went to the front door of their small house.

And Death greeted him like an old friend.

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	89. Chapter 89: Mikado Is A Colour

**Head of House, Ravenclaw, Round 8, Prompts: Escape, Mikado (yellow), Action: Sprinting, WC: 1075**

 **AU, probably.**

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"You said you liked Mikado," Ron explains, grinning and gesturing to the freshly-decorated room before us. My mouth has fallen open in complete horror - although I am slightly impressed at how he managed to source some of this stuff. "Do you love it?"

I can't speak. The room has definitely been decorated, but not at all how I expected. For one, the wallpaper is not that bright, floral colour like I had shown him, and hinted at, two weeks ago. Instead, it is made up of many faces of Japanese Emperors, all in monochrome colours. There are gilded frames, shrines to the Emperors and Japanese culture. An ornamental plate - complete with Japan's first Emperor, Jimmu - sits atop the mantelpiece, not the carriage clock I had suggested.

"Um…" I try, but falter.

"You said Mikado. This is Mikado! I googled it!" exclaims Ron, gesturing to the ornamental plate. He seems so enthused that I almost laugh. But it isn't quite funny knowing that he has fully furnished the front room in our first house together with Japanese Emperors and not the beautiful, warm yellow I had intended.

"I meant the colour, you idiot."

Ron guffaws. "That's a ridiculous name for a colour."

I glare back at him, but he continues laughing. Obviously, he doesn't feel serious enough about us living together that he finds it so hilarious for him to decorate our living room with Emperors, instead of the very specific colour I supplied him with.

"I have to leave."

More often than not these days I wear shoes I can run in. This is because I enjoy sprinting, and I don't enjoy the feeling of not being able to do it. I run to escape situations and people and to get places - because it is significantly faster than walking. So, with Ron having presented me with such a situation, the best - and only - option is to escape on foot. This way, I get in some good exercise, and some much-needed distance from my boyfriend, the genius Ronald Weasley.

Surely it wouldn't have been difficult to find out that mikado is a colour? I mean, jeez, he's decorating a room. It's not difficult.

Now I'm breaking from my walk into a run, loving the feeling of the ground against my trainers, loving the distance I'm putting between myself and home. It's been stressful, and I've noticed that I have been running a lot more. Pretty much daily sprints. And it doesn't always help. The feeling of escape lasts a little while, the sprinting is great for endorphins, the adrenaline courses through me, and I can ignore the rest of the world, focusing on just my breathing.

But then I'm back, and Ron is still there, and the house is still incomplete, and my parents have left messages on the landline, and Harry has sent ten texts about what he should cook for dinner - Ginny, his wife, is away at a Quidditch thing for her team - or whether I think he should get a microwave meal.

All I wanted was for Ron to paint the room in a damn mikado yellow. Bright, colourful, beautiful. It was going to have sunflowers in to compliment the yellow, and magenta cushions to contrast. Maybe I would have even added a bold, electric blue throw. Alas, no. I am stuck with wallpaper with faces on it, and glorified, gilded frames. How the heck did he even manage to find that wallpaper? Did he get it specially printed?

Am I even allowed to tell him that I hate it? After he spent time and effort decorating for me?

Merlin knows.

So I keep running, sprinting.

My legs burn with the effort, and I know I'm tiring. But the adrenaline is stronger. _I have to keep going. I'm not far enough away. Not far enough. Not far enough._

And I wonder, will I even be far enough? And what does that even mean? What, exactly, am I escaping from?

I love Ron, I do. I love our house, and our friends, and our lives. He's charming and funny - and occasionally dense and rude, but that's just him - and he makes great food sometimes (he tries), and he's been really accommodating for living in our muggle community. What is there to escape from?

The answer has always been resting in the back of my mind.

When I was younger, I used to get claustrophobic. Entering a room felt too closed-in, hallways were a nightmare, and lifts were beyond thinkable. I would panic seeing a small space, knowing I would have to go through it. The feeling of being too close to people with no way out was horrendous. And I would argue that maybe this is what's happening here.

Me, sprinting away from a claustrophobic life - or, rather, the fear of a claustrophobic life.

I love Ron. I just feel sick thinking about not having a way out, which is a horrible way to look at a relationship and a life. Being so emotionally open with someone makes me panic.

And yet…

He decorated a room with Japanese Emperor's because he thought that was what I wanted. He didn't think twice about the choice, didn't confirm what I meant, just accepted that I might want something out of the ordinary for our home. Although he didn't interpret what I meant by mikado, he technically stuck to what I had asked for. He wanted to please me.

Heck if I don't adore that about him.

So, I think, that I don't want to escape him, but that I want to escape the fears I have about being in a relationship. Because I'm not afraid about Ron.

I turn back and run towards home. Ron is waiting for me when I get there.

The room is the same, Ron sitting on the settee, head in his hands. Except for one other thing. On the mantelpiece, between ornamental plates and figures, is a vase filled with sunflowers, just as I had imagined.

"The flowers are beautiful," I say, out of breath but smiling. He cricks his neck to look up at me.

"They were the only yellow things I could find. Hermione, I'm so sorry, I didn't think at all -"

I silence him with a kiss.

"It doesn't matter. I love you, Ronald Weasley. No amount of strange wallpaper is going to change that."

He grins.

"Well, that's a relief, because it is non-refundable."

And I laugh.

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	90. Chapter 90: Break My Heart

**Head of House, Ravenclaw, Round 8, Prompts: Temptation, Xanadu, [Quote] "If you want to know what a man's like, take a good look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals." ~Sirius Black**. **, WC: 1121**

 **AU, most definitely.**

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Outside, in the cold and the dark, where no one can see us, we rest briefly. The temptation to go back inside is strong, but I know that this conversation is possibly one of the most important conversations we will ever have. And, like all of our time together, it has to be done in secret - away from prying eyes and curious ears. Any time we have together, away from everyone, is a rest from the farce we play. In the xanadu light cast by dark foliage of the forest, Draco Malfoy turns to me, frowning, and starts to talk.

"They're planning to give me the mark the day after the train home," he says unconcernedly. I let out a breath I wasn't aware I was holding. That's just over a week away. A week is all we have. "We don't have long."

"You can say that again," I laugh shortly. It hurts me that he's able say these things in such a way. It makes me think he doesn't care one iota, even though I know that he does. He must do. Though we are dating in private, we're still dating. Sort of. Stolen kisses in corridors, while on prefect duty. Shared secrets and moments when we could get away from those around us. It wasn't easy in the slightest, being tempted to fall in love with someone you _know_ you shouldn't.

Draco sighs heavily. "Hermione, we never had long anyway. We both knew -"

"It was an assumption, not knowledge," I cut in, frustrated. "You don't have to do this, you know that, right? You don't have to join them. Because if you join them, then this has to end, and it doesn't have to be that way."

Things are awkwardly silent. Seconds pass like lifetimes, long and painful. Draco shuffles on the wet grass beside me while I fight the urge to either scream or cry. Both are extremely viable options I feel. I love him, I really do. I even like him most of the time - though not for his Death Eater tendencies. Of course, his family being who and how they are, and his life being what it is, he's always going to be pulled towards that Voldemort fan-group. Tempted towards them and their darkness, in their xanadu cloaks and skull-tattoo forearms. He's going to be one of them.

I think he loves me. I think he likes me. Neither of these things stop him from having the innate desire to follow the world's most deluded and crappiest leader. Half of the time I think he is just doing this so his father might be proud of him. Draco thinks that joining the Death Eaters will mean his father will be saved from Voldemort's wrath, that all will be forgiven, and the world will continue. Father and son will bond over their evildoing and, I don't know, torture and killing muggleborns. Like me.

"Hermione, you know I have to join them. I want to…" He pauses briefly at my horrified expression. Obviously, he doesn't care enough and just perseveres with whatever garbage he is about to spit. "It doesn't change how I feel about you. It doesn't change how brilliant, and wonderful, and beautiful I think you are. It's just, the way my father talks about him sometimes. I have to know, I want to know him." Draco smiles then. It is perhaps one of the more terrifying things I have seen. And just a couple of weeks ago, Ron was attacked by brains.

"If you want to know what a man's like, take a good look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals," I quote, remembering Sirius saying those words about Winky and Mr Crouch last year. "He is like that, Voldemort - I know, sorry." Draco cringes at my use of his name. "Look at the way he treats his inferiors. That should tell you enough to make an informed decision about whether or not he is someone you want controlling your life."

In other words, _he is not a good person_. And I seriously hope Draco considers this.

Alas, he scowls at me. "What _exactly_ are you saying about my father?"

"I'm not talking about your father, Draco," I cut in, trying to steer away from annoyance and back to that ol' chestnut of supportive and assertive. "Muggleborns, I mean. Muggles. People like me, and people like my parents. Look how he treats those people, people he thinks are below him. Torture, curses, murder. Cold-blooded murder, no less."

My mind wanders briefly to the events of the World Cup. Seeing the Death Eaters stalking around the grounds like they own the land there, displaying their disaffection with muggles. I twist my hands together in my anxiety. I can't let the same fate befall Draco - dragged into a life of horror and terror. If he was in this group of people, what would happen to us? If Voldemort caught me, what would Draco do? Where would his allegiance be?

Perhaps the question is better unanswered because maybe I know the horrible truth already.

Draco has always loved his family, cherished them, respected them. He's not going to give that up for me.

"What can I say to get you to change your mind?"

"Nothing," he replies stubbornly.

We remain in silence for a short while longer, knowing the inevitable is coming. We're going to have to depart as two separate souls. The grey-green light surrounding us is darker still as the moon becomes shrouded in thick clouds. Night is pulling in even darker and surely dawn will soon be well on its way. We will need to go inside soon. I'm not sure that I want to anymore. I don't particularly want this night to be over, stuck halfway between love and arguing, temptation and logic.

I speak again, desperate to hold onto him just a little longer.

"The Order can protect you, you know," I murmur into the temperate air. "We have resources that help to hide people. No one will know. There can be a cover story, like in those witness protection schemes. You'll be safe, and we can be together -"

"Please stop," he breathes, head in his hands. "This is killing me."

I place a hand on his shoulder, comforting.

"I can't hide away, Hermione. I can't hide from war. I can't betray my family, and I don't want to hurt you either." He speaks fast, as if the thoughts are chasing themselves from his aching head. "We shouldn't do this anymore."

"Draco!" I shout as he stands up, pulling his cloak closer to him.

He doesn't reply, stalking back to the castle, leaving me completely alone, completely in the dark.

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	91. Chapter 91: Open The Store

**Head of House, Ravenclaw, Round 9, Drabble, Prompt:** " **Couldn't you accept a compliment just this once?"** **, WC: 388**

 **AU. Ron just doesn't appear here, sorry. Imagine that he's off doing Auror training.**

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"Morning boys," I call into the near-empty shop, hanging my scarf on the hatstand along with my pea coat.

No reply. Strange, but I suppose fair enough. Sometimes, if they know I'm opening the store, they don't bother to get up until around ten o'clock. Instead of worrying, I begin the long process of opening the store. I start with lamps, the cash register, moving around stock that was out of place last night. Each day is different when working with the enigmatic Weasley twins in Weasley Wizard Wheezes.

I started work here five months ago as a favour to Fred and George. Verity - their sales assistant - had just quit for a tour in Thailand, and I was looking for some extra cash. Things worked out. They never started looking for a serious candidate to work there, and I never asked to leave. The work is entertaining, the company is pretty good, and it is always extremely interesting to see new products being created. When they put their minds to it, the twins really do work insanely hard and come out with incredible ideas.

One downside to the job, however, is that I have a horrible crush on one of the bosses.

Speaking of the devil, Fred stumbles downstairs at around 8:45, just fifteen minutes before the store would be scheduled to open. He's wearing pyjamas still, obviously confused. My heart hurts just looking at him. Hair mussed from a restless night. T-shirt crumpled, muscles visible.

"Looking good, Weasley," I comment, only half joking. He doesn't need to know that, though.

"Piss off, Hermione," he grins. "I look and feel like shite."

"Nah," I parry, walking closer to him as he moves further down the stairs.

Fred raises an eyebrow in derision. "I know what I look like. Don't patronise me."

"Couldn't you accept a compliment just this once?" I ask. "Not everything is a joke."

He looks at me curiously for a second. Then his face breaks out into an enormous grin. As if on cue, the lights in one corner of the store flicker to life. Some sort of Fred Weasley magic going on there.

"Ah, I see. You're madly in love with me."

I throw a hex in his direction and roll my eyes. But I also don't respond.

He doesn't need to know.

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	92. Chapter 92: Face Your Fear

**Head of House, Ravenclaw, Round 9, Additional, Prompt: Personal Triumph** **, WC: 1070**

 **AU. In the style of a blog post.**

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Hi everyone! How are you all doing today?

Fear is funny. It plays the mind, and tricks it. It makes you think things that aren't real. For example, sometimes when I'm walking in the dark, it conjures all manner of horrible things crawling behind me, reaching for the back of my cloak. Although one half of my mind is trying to think about how much the dark doesn't matter and the unlikeliness of zombies, the other half of my brain is preoccupied with adrenaline and the need to be back in a lit room.

It's irrational, but it impedes my ability to go downstairs and get a midnight snack.

So there's one of the more irrational fears, but there are some very rational fears. For example, the fear of being hit by another vehicle if on any motorway. That's rational. Falling. Very rational too, I think. Death is also rational - being gone forever without further interruption to your life's work. Spiders. Debatable.

More than all of these fears, there is one thing that paralyses me. More than natural disasters and zombies; they pale in comparison.

Acrophobia. The extreme fear of heights.

There are some people who say it's actually a fear of falling, but I would honestly disagree with that. Being high up anywhere makes me feel quite physically sick. I get dizzy and nauseous at the top of Yorkshire moors, no matter how silly that may sound to any normal person. It's a fear of being high up, not a fear of falling - because a fear of falling is rational, it's dangerous.

About a month ago, a friend told me about her OCD. She told me that she was going to be doing a skydive to raise money for research into her condition. To help future people with it - she wanted to help teens who were also struggling. Then she asked me to do it with me.

It's for Charity, Hermione. Do it for the good of the people.

"It'll be perfectly safe," Ginny told me (she said she didn't mind not being anonymous, so there you are my redheaded friend). "And it's for a great cause. There's less than one-percent chance of dying."

Thanks for that, Ginny.

Today was the day I did the thing I was most afraid of in all my life.

Some people are thrill-seekers. They look out for things like this, skydiving. I can't imagine how they could even think something as horrifying as it would be fun, but there we go. People have very different viewpoints on things.

I'm not a thrill-seeker.

Ginny and I went up in the plane together, and she dove off first.

Mad, I thought. Absolutely fucking mad.

But there I was, suspended twenty thousand feet in the air. Nothing really seemed quite as important as the irrefutable fact that I was supposed to jump. Supposed to jump, as though committing suicide. It didn't seem natural or normal or anything that would be remotely good for my mental and physical health.

The sky was beautiful, so long as I didn't look down. We were sailing through clouds and bright sunshine, and yet I felt sicker than I have ever been in my short life.

I can't do it. I really can't. It's completely illogical. It makes no sense to jump out of a moving plane. That's even worse than jumping out of a moving car or train, and both of those are insanely dangerous.

These are the things that I told myself, sitting at the edge of the plane, an instructor's voice firm in my air.

I was on the precipice of triumph and failure. Because, whatever my decision would be, it would result in either one of those two things. On one hand, I could choose to go against logic and jump out of the plane, tacked to a strapping man and an enormous parachute. I would raise money for disadvantaged kids with mental health disorders. I would triumph over my fear and possibly be cured of my fear of heights. On the other hand, I give in, don't jump, and we fly the plane back to the ground. And I would have had to admit to my friend that I couldn't get over my fear for a few hot minutes to raise money for something dear to her heart.

It wasn't exactly Sophie's choice when looking at the options like that. It was obvious which I would have to choose.

Maybe I'd throw up in the air. Maybe I wouldn't.

"Well, are you going to do it, or are you not?" asked the instructor sitting behind me. "You don't have to do it, but you don't have long to decide."

"I want to," I managed, half-choking. I didn't want to, but at the very same time, I knew it was exactly what I was supposed to do. I was supposed to jump, to raise money, to be the friend that my friend deserved. To help her cause, no matter what.

I wanted it to all be over and to be back in bed with a movie and a huge bag of popcorn.

He counted down from five, then I wasn't sure, then we were pushed out of the plane side and thrown into the air. We were falling, tumbling through the air at a thousand miles per hour, soaring in the wind. My cheeks felt as though they might rip off with the pressure. We were like birds, riding the air itself. My heart was racing. I thought I might have a panic attack in the air, or maybe even a stroke. I thought I would die from the panic. But then… it wasn't panic. It was something entirely different.

It was thrill.

I loved it, I absolutely loved it.

I don't think I will even fully be able to explain the feeling that was rushing through me at that time - a feeling of purest happiness and freedom. Utter euphoria. When the parachute was pulled and filled out above us I was disappointed because I knew it would all be over soon, too soon.

Ginny was waiting for me when we slammed into the grassy floor, laughing in jubilation.

So, my advice today: There are many terrifying things in the world, but you should take the opportunity to conquer your fears. Because you just might enjoy yourself.

And that's me done. Have a wonderful day!

\- Hermione Granger

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	93. Chapter 93: Mystery: Man and Murder

**A Gift Fic awarded to Catlyn for her hard work in Round 9 of the Houses Competition!**

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"Back again, Granger?" Draco Malfoy asks from the other side of the bar, wiping it down with a dirty rag. Pretending that I don't come here often.

"Don't act like you don't like my company," I mutter in response, grimacing at the stench of alcohol surrounding us. And the fact that the barstool is uncomfortable and slightly damp is not exactly appetising either. He raises an eyebrow in response. "Just get me a drink."

"Please?"

"Thank you? What do you want me to say. I'm paying you, isn't that enough pleasantry?"

Draco laughs shortly and passes me a large glass of red wine. He's watching me with that funny expression, his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Like he's thinking something a little too difficult, like there's something quite implausible on his mind. I try my best to ignore him, but he just won't look away from me.

"If you don't quit staring at me, I will ask for something stronger," I threaten. He backs down, rolls his eyes, and moves away to the other side of the bar where a balding man is vying for Draco's attention. I scowl. Not that it should really bother me, his attention being elsewhere. It's just one of those dumb things where there's a total paradox between... everything. I don't want his attention, but I don't want his attention to be diverted elsewhere?

Does that even make sense?

I pull the stack of casefiles from my bag and lay them out of the bar. Draco usually doesn't mind, and he seems to be ignoring me now so that works too. They're not entirely confidential, but it's also not common knowledge that there have been three homicides in this area in the last week, all with similar causes of death - an obscure poison that is almost exclusively obtained on the Black Market, or through collecting ingredients and brewing separately. It's a tough one, in so many words.

Also, I'm not sure so many people would be psyched to hear that their lead homicide detective likes to work best with an enormous glass of merlot - so much so that it is my regular, and Draco knows it.

"What is it tonight?"

Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

"Juicy homicide," he comments, leaning over the papers and reading upside down. "Can I get in on that?"

Draco Malfoy. Simple bartender. Annoyingly attractive when he attempts to think. And frustratingly brilliant at helping solve cases. He was recently brought on to my team as an civilian advisor. I'm not sure anyone really knows what that means, but it allows him access to crime scenes to provide external details and whatever else crap he can include that helps the rest of us solve cases.

"Not tonight," I murmur in response, looking over the details more closely.

"Can I come by after work?"

"Sure."

Malfoy allows me to work in silence and disappears to entertain someone else for the evening. Probably some gorgeous blond or a leggy brunette that would far outshine anything I have to offer. You know, other than my wild intellectuality. Somehow I doubt that anyone Malfoy picks up would have the sense to even know what a homicide is, let alone be able to solve one.

Not that I care about who Malfoy picks up.

Well, not really.

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	94. Chapter 94: Better Together

**Houses Competition. HoH, Ravenclaw, Round 10. Standard, Prompt: Performance, WC: 763**

 **This story is with two OCs.**

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Ravenclaw. _Supposed_ to be filled with wonderful, intelligent people. The kinds of people who can do huge math sums in their head at the click of someone's finger. The kinds of people who can do wild, clever things. I've always been a dumb Ravenclaw. I've never enjoyed mathematics or science, and being in a history class is my worst nightmare. Instead, I have a flair for creativity. Music, art, drama - I love to perform. People don't think of Ravenclaws as that kind of smart. So, that all means that I'm the odd one out in every situation.

A lot of people have their best friends within the same house, but I differ there too. My best friend is Stephanie the Hufflepuff. She's great at finding things, extremely kind, and not at all like the people that hang out in my common room. Sometimes we sit in the library, other times we don't and that's great too. Mostly, we hang out by the lake, watching the giant squid beneath the water. We go to choir together, which is always so much fun. Professor Flitwick is a talented singer, but he doesn't like my suggestions of pentatonix style Fall Out Boy - who doesn't know who Fall Out Boy are, _really_? - so that harshes my mellow a little.

You win some you lose some.

Stephanie is also a half-blood, so thankfully she knows who they are, and Paramore, and so many other of those classic old-school bands from the alt-pop era. We don't have access to iPods here, but we both bring new favourite records on vinyl for the gramophone she keeps under her bed. Her dormmates are nicer than mine, and they let us alone which is good.

We like to sing together a lot. Mostly, we sing to the pop songs on the vinyl, occasionally we make up songs in the music rooms buried deep in the castle of Hogwarts. It was in one of these rooms - myself on the piano, Stephanie strumming a guitar - that Professor Flitwick entered the room without knocking, his face telling the story of surprise. At first, I thought it might have been that we weren't allowed in there, but he quickly amended my thoughts.

"I want you girls to perform in the Christmas concert," he said, unblinkingly. "Play this song. You must, you must. I will hear nothing else!"

With those words, he scarpered from the room, leaving us with little more than blank minds.

We were excited, to say the least. Professor Flitwick obviously thought that we were good enough, and no one had complained about our singing before. Plus, we didn't care what other people thought of us for the most part. So, we spent every free moment in the music rooms, going over the lyrics, the chords, perfecting out the act and our performance.

Finally, far too quickly, the night of the concert arrived. Tonight.

I'm nervous, but I'm also extremely excited. I love to sing; I love to create and to perform, and this is just another of those steps. Maybe I won't go into the Ministry and I'll be a famous singer, like the lady my father loves to listen to on the radio every Christmas, or the band my mother enjoys - the Weird Sisters.

"I don't think I can do this," Steph says beside me, shaking, dressed in her blue sequin robes we bought to match. "I feel really sick, and I'm so worried. I'll have a panic attack, I know it. I'm worried I will be totally awful."

I shake my head at her. "You are brilliant. You don't need to panic. Everyone will love you." She frowns at me. "Plus, there is no point worrying."

"What makes you say that?"

"Worrying means that you suffer more than you need to."

"That's very wise," she notes, smiling a little, shaking a little less.

I shrug. "Maybe I am a good Ravenclaw after all."

"You're the best."

We hug each other quickly and grin. This is going to be bad, I refuse to believe that it will be. With Steph by my side, nothing will ever be bad, never. Together, we step out onto the stage, and start to sing.

It doesn't go badly as we feared. It goes well, really well. So wonderfully, in fact, that we receive the loudest applause I suspect anyone has ever had in the Great Hall, having performed Fall Out Boy's legendary Centuries to the masses of Hogwarts.

Now when we walk through the corridors, we are handed smiles and sent well-wishes for our next song.

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	95. Chapter 95: Green Suited Dragon

**Ravenclaw HoH, Round 10, Additional, St. Patrick's Day, WC: 1016**

 **Draco and Hermione, law-assistants for the Ministry, are on temporary move to MACUSA, New York.**

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I've been in New York for six months. Six weird, odd, Draco-Malfoy-filled months, working at MACUSA for some age-old legislation that needs to be revamped. Honestly, when Kingsley suggested that we go to America, I was intrigued. These talks aren't exactly fun, but they're useful - rather, they will be. Even though Malfoy, Kingsley and I all talked about this in preparation to going, none of us ever thought it was going to be this level of complicated - or that it was going to last such a long time.

And here we are mid-March, barely even a third of the way done. MACUSA aren't particularly fond of talking with us, but that's mainly because they don't agree with rewriting their old laws, even if said laws that are no longer applicable. Draco is bored, so he goes out every night, talks to people in the street, and it's like his boredom has somehow made him a moderately nicer person. He manages to surprise me often enough. Like today for example.

I'm already at work, Draco is usually late (he turns up for the important meetings which is a blessing - I am usually one of the first people in), and the doors to the elevator are sliding open.

Honest to god, I could cry with laughter.

Lemme paint the scene a little.

Draco Malfoy loves his Slytherin clan. He enjoys his own ambition, his leadership, and his crass behaviour. I know that he wouldn't change anything about himself. But his family have never dressed to support Slytherin. By this, I mean that they don't dress in green. Mostly, they wear black - or white, but essentially they live without the colourful clothing that inhabits my wardrobe. But here is Malfoy, walking towards me with that supercilious gait, wearing a completely green suit.

It's awful. The blazer and trousers are a dark green, almost shimmery in quality. But his shirt is the worst. Lime green. Just why. Malfoy who is so cool and casual and usually dresses pretty well, in a vibrant greet suit. It contrasts poorly with the brightly lit office area we are in - complete with gold decoration and light-blue walls. I don't know who was the interior designed, but it's a hash job for sure.

"What in Merlin's name are you wearing?" I ask, laughing at him. He looks unconcerned, hands in his pockets and messenger bag slung over his shoulders. Even in green, he looks confident. He probably doesn't care that he looks even so slightly idiotic. "And why are you wearing that? Ran out of charcoal suits?"

"You're joking, Granger. You're wearing green too," he notes, grinning and sliding into the seat adjacent to mine and pulling a stack of files from his bag. He sets them out in the usual disorganised way that always gets on my nerves. Of course, Malfoy pays no mind to it, draws out his quil and begins to make rash notes on a spare bit of parchment that had been lying on my side of the desk.

I glance down at the skirt I put on today. It's a soft silk one I bought last week - only affordable because of the sale. I hadn't thought about it, hadn't thought about the date or anything. Just wanted a splash of colour for a similarly boring day as the last.

"Not unusually," I comment. I often wear more than just the monochrome of Malfoy's choosing.

He smirks at me. "It's St. Patty's Day."

"Who?"

"St. Patrick, you dunce," Malfoy laughs, shaking his head. Is that glitter in his hair? Can't be. "You know, the green holiday. I'm part Irish, if you didn't know. Top of the mornin to ya, and all that." His attempt at the accent is ludicrous. "You're coming out with me tonight." It's not a question.

"Nope," I answer.

"Yes," he says, dragging himself closer on the wheels of his roller-chair. I roll my eyes at him. "Just this once. St. Patrick's is the wildest, most wonderful party New York has to offer. Booze, girls, guys," he winks at me, "and more entertainment than you can dream of. Irish beer, dancing... Come on, Hermione, you'd love it."

I shake my head. "Not sure I agree with that, Draco. Given that I strongly dislike clubs and I'm not looking for a man right now."

"So, look for a lady, I don't care, just come out."

"Will you stop badgering me if I go out with you just this once?"

"Yes."

"Great. Count me in."

I almost regret it the moment the words spill from my lips. However, I don't get the opportunity as Madame Checkerton announces her presence with a stalking group of Aurors behind her and a grim expression painting her face. That means trouble. Malfoy and I share a glance, and then we stand up to greet her. The President of MACUSA, Checkerton, is vigilant with her timings, and she hates to wait for anyone but herself.

She's a bitch, basically. She's the reason we've been here six months, rather than six days.

The horrible day that today is turns into some sort of green, magical wonderland of St. Patrick's hilarity. Not only does Checkerton fall on her arse a couple of times, but birds poop on the shoulders of the Aurors and anyone who has been cruel. It's a miracle, somewhat.

Finally, it's all over, and Draco is dragging me outdoors with him, waving to strangers on the street, donning an altogether new personality for the festivities. He seems to carry this wild spirit with him, and suddenly we're drinking together, making new friends, and having the time of our lives. I know Malfoy likes to make a joke, but I had no idea that he was so much Merlin-damning fun.

I have never had so much to drink in my entire life.

Never have I even been so drawn to the fun, to the action everywhere.

I can also say, with no word of a lie, that I have never had quite so much fun.

The extraordinarily disgusting hangover is actually worth it, for once.

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	96. Chapter 96: I Hate Clubs

**A Gift Fic presented to nottheonlyfanaround for their hard work in Round 10 of the Houses Competition!**

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"I hate clubs!" I shout above the pulsating, raucous music of the room.

Ginny doesn't seem to hear me, instead sashaying her way across the crowded room to the bar, holding her purse close to her chest. I scowl and follow her, more disappointed in myself for agreeing to come to this. The club is too small, at least it's filled with far too many people. Too densely packed. I cringe when arms brush against mine, and shudder when a dancing couples bump into me. When a tall figure slams into me, I stumble backwards and cry out.

"Watch it," I say, cursing. No drink has spilled on me, so that's positive, and the man in front of me looks both confused and completely gorgeous. I don't know whether to hate him for bumping into me, or to be extremely pleased for the same reason.

His lips move, but I can't hear a word coming from him. I gesture to my ears, indicating that I'm deaf to whatever it is he's saying. He learns closer and speaks, lips right beside my face.

"I'm sorry," he replies. "I didn't mean to knock into you."

I smile, blushing for no real reason.

"I'll let you get back to your evening," I tell him, beginning to move off to find Ginny. Lo and behold, I cannot see her anywhere. Great. I'll just make my way to the bar and hope for the best that her hair is just as luminous in here as it is outside.

With one more look at the beautiful stranger - damn his grey eyes and blonde hair - I disappear into the crowd, only half hoping that he will rescue me from this madness. Seems unlikely, but you never know. So, I just push through the endless swathes of people, and finally reach the bar. Ginny is somewhere further down the end of it. I order my drink from here, watching her in the corner of my eye and deciding to go over to her in just a moment. She's talking animatedly to a bespectacled, dark-haired man. He seems nice, not the drug-your-drink kind. But, then again, even those who look innocent rarely are.

Someone taps me on the shoulder. I spin around, protecting my drink

"Hey," he says. Mysterious beautiful stranger from ten minutes ago. "I wanted to introduce myself."

"Why?" I ask.

He smirks and rolls his eyes in jest. "Well, when one fancies someone, it appears they are obliged to make an acquaintance. That's how things go around here, apparently."

I nod. True. "Hermione Granger," I say, holding out my hand. He shakes it.

"Draco Malfoy. Pleasure to meet you Miss Granger."

"Likewise."

Maybe I don't hate clubs all that much after all.

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	97. Chapter 97: Run

**A Gift Fic presented to CP for her hard work in Round 10 of the Houses Competition!**

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She was perusing a bookstore when it happened. Somewhere in the back corner of the shop, looking at the classics - the penguin editions. There had been a copy of Don Quixote's Cervantes that had caught her eye, and she was just about to pick it up. But suddenly, the book was swept from her grip and a stranger had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. He was insanely tall, very thin, and wore an expression that was half of glee and half of churning trepidation.

"Sorry about that, I'm sure you'll find another copy," he said, grinning. Then he thwacked the air with the heavy book, and the air itself clunked. Hermione was no idiot, she knew magic and invisible things. So, of course she assumed that the space was being occupied by an invisible sentient being. That would be the only thing to make sense.

Hermione stepped back from the man, in complete bewilderment. Was he a wizard? He didn't look like a wizard. For one, he…. Sort of knew how to dress. Blue pinstripe suit with converse was a little odd, but nowhere near the ridiculous fashion icons of the wizarding word - one key fashionista being Ernie Humperdink who wore a women's nightie and military boots for a week on a undercover mission with the Ministry.

"Who are you?" she demanded of the man, taking in the rest of him. The wild brown hair, stupidly long coat, and odd socks. "Do you work for the Ministry?"

"Nah, I hate the government. Pompous pricks," he replied, still struggling with the air. "You should probably run now, you know."

She snorted. "I don't think so. Armenum revellio," she whispered, so that muggles wouldn't hear.

Before them appeared a hulking figure, a mass of muscle and blue fur, a face contorted like it belonged to the devil himself. She balked for a moment, just staring at the beast. But it was nothing compared to the sorts she had dealt with in the past. With one swift flick of her wrist, the charm blasted at it, the thing was unconscious and lying on the ground between her and this other man.

He turned slowly, staring at her.

"How the hell did you do that?" he asked, voice high in disbelief. "You've got a stick. I have a stick too. Mine is sonic though. What _was_ that?"

"Wait, you're _not_ a wizard?" she cried in return, rolling her eyes. Now she would have to obliviate him. That was not going to be pretty.

"I don't have the hat for it," he admitted. "I'm the doctor. Timelord. You?"

"Hermione Granger. Witch."

He looked for a moment as if he might argue, eyebrows twitching in question. But then he obviously resolved not to.

"Wonderful. I think we should work together. Now, _run!_ "

Just like that, she was sprinting out of the book store, leaving the blue beast behind, and apparently not even beginning to question why she should follow this tall, sand-shoe man, who was clearly just a different kind of strange than her. Then again, she wasn't really in the mood for questioning, she was in the mood for adventure.

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	98. Chapter 98: Sybil Trelawney

**A Flash Fic presented to AJ for completing an additional story in round ten of the Houses Competition!**

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Sybil wallowed in her own pity, in the pity of those who had looked upon her in the Great Hall. The students, lining the back walls, watching with a queer gaze. She knew they didn't like her, didn't revere her as they might have done if she were more honest. If she were a little better at her job. Even if she was a little scary, like Minerva, or Filius.

But not to the level of Dolores. That foul witch. Any curse words dealt upon her would have been too light a comment on her character.

No. She would be better than Dolores. Even if she could not match the brilliance of her other colleagues, her peers, her greatest and only friends.

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	99. Chapter 99: Gilderoy Lockhart

**A Flash Fic presented to Holly for completing an additional story in round ten of the Houses Competition!**

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Gilderoy Lockhart sounded like a hero's name, he thought. A glittering hero - golden hair, a marble-white smile, and a tall, proud body. He had these thanks, thankfully, and declared it thus fate that he should be a hero. But there was one problem. He wasn't brave like a hero, he wasn't especially strong or brilliant or wise. He didn't have those underneath qualities.

He would have to invent them, to invent himself a perfect hero.

Yes, that was the key. But how… Well, there was one thing he did know how to do, which was a memory charm. If he could find perfect heroes, he could wipe their memory, and take their place instead. He would become every perfect hero, and therefore become the ultimate hero. It was his role, and a role he would fill immediately.

He packed a case, grinning like a Cheshire cat. First, there was a banshee he had heard about in Inverness.

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	100. Chapter 100: Filius Flitwick

**A Flash Fic presented to Elaine for completing an additional story in round ten of the Houses Competition!**

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Filius Flitwick had taught many students, had encountered many appalling spells being cast in his relatively small classroom, whilst stood on top of his desk and commanding the class. No one was quite as bad at charms than Seamus Finnigan. It was almost funny. Well, it was incredibly funny.

Flitwick would wait, every lesson, for that tell-tale clatter of items and crash of an explosion. He would anticipate soaring across the room for some ill-performed charm. He even built in special features to make sure he would not be harmed in the process. It was all a learning experience.

And also extremely amusing.

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	101. Chapter 101: Pansy's Tenth Birthday

**For AJ, as a pre-round challenge to the fourth year of the Houses Competition. Pansy Parkinson's tenth birthday!**

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Pansy Parkinson's tenth birthday was not quite as she might have expected.

You see, she was expecting a party. That had been the tradition for the last nine years, hadn't it? Surely, it wasn't wrong to assume the same thing would happen? Instead, things were much improved from her own expectations. There was no need to dress fancy, there was no requirement of alcohol-induced conversations prompted by drunken family members. She could stay in her pyjamas - that was the best news she'd had all day.

So, dressed in flannel plaid, Pansy ran downstairs for breakfast, and _both_ of her parents were there. Her mother, wearing a silk dressing gown and wonderfully hilarious slippers that looked like they had come from a dream. Boots, with a yellow bear's face on it. Peculiar, imaginative, and nothing like her mother. Her father, in comic-book pyjamas. She recognised them from the magazine that their muggleborn maid had brought the previous week.

Pansy didn't know what to say. She was so uncertain whether this was some other reality she might have stepped into during her sleep.

She hardly ever saw her parents, let alone for breakfast. At the very least, it would be for dinner once a week. On a Sunday, when her father was home from work, and when her mother had no other obligations. Maybe this was a new thing that would happen more often? Maybe, now that she was in the last year before going off to Hogwarts, they might want to spend more time with her? Maybe? Maybe.

Breakfast was extremely pleasant. Her parents talked to her about school, she asked them about their work and about the day ahead of them. It was all sounding so good, and she was so happy. It was a blissful happiness. She was learning about their lives, and she was appreciating them more than she had ever done in her life before.

After that, they went to the beach. They took her in side-along apparition, landed in the dunes together, and ran out towards the sea. They had fish and chips for lunch, like muggles. But it was one of the most delicious meals she had ever had in her life. Smatterings of ketchup, lashings of vinegar and salt and mushy peas - she had thought peas were only for soup and appetisers, but they were clearly a more variable substance. Her fingers were quickly coated with grease and tomato sauce, and she smelt of lemon and fish. It was wonderful.

She didn't need presents. She didn't need beautiful dresses, or gowns, or hats, or shoes to fill her life with love and meaning. She had everything she wanted, right then, with her parents. Walking along the beach with them, hand-in-hand, breathing in the salty, afternoon air.

It was a whole new type of happiness, and a whole new type of magic.

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	102. Chapter 102: Wild Weasleys

**For Elaine, as a pre-round challenge to the fourth year of the Houses Competition. Fred, George, and an admonishing Charlie.**

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"Fred, put it _down_!"

Charlie was chasing his brother, not an entirely unusual pastime for him. But things had been especially bad recently, ever since Charlie had brought home his wand from Diagon Alley. There were many problems with this, in fact. One being that Fred and George - the troublesome duo, who had been pranksters probably in the womb - were already pretty good at magic without the wand. Of course, being who they are, they liked to steal it. Charlie had tried hiding it, locking it away, keeping it out of reach, giving it to his mother, but they seemed to find it.

Especially unhelpful given they loved to torment the youngest Weasley brother, Ron. Mercilessly. With the wand's ability to focus their magic, it meant that they could more easily wreak havoc throughout the Burrow. Including in moments like this one, where Fred is running from Charlie, waving the wand, and George was chasing Charlie. Everything was a game to them. Being five years old, it sort of made sense. Though was at time infuriating.

"Don't bother trying to catch me Charlie, I'm much faster than you!" Fred was shouting. Charlie did not agree, but that was besides the point. "Watch this!"

As Fred swirled the wand in an enormous arc, fireworks exploded around the three of them in a glittering array of colours. For a moment, Charlie was totally entranced by this magic, but seconds later Percy's frustrated cries sounded out and Charlie had been tackled by George from behind.

All in all, it was a completely normal day for the Weasleys.

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	103. Chapter 103: She

**For Lauren, as a pre-round challenge to the fourth year of the Houses Competition. Ginny and Luna.**

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Am I allowed to look at her like that?

She's like sunshine

Bright orange, a burning horizon

 _a beautiful future_

.

Her hair is like fire

Her mind is sharper than fresh-cut ice

She is like birthday cake, and sleep, and the sweetest dewdrop

.

She is my friend

My friend's girlfriend

And his friend's sister

 _and she is so far away_

.

She is red and I am blue

She is gold where I am silver

She is warmth while I am cold

.

Ginny Weasley is the one in the polaroid picture

I'm the the one with the camera

Trying to capture her beauty

Without being able to express it in words

 _silence is all I have_

.

She will never know

 _Can never know_

She means everything to me

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	104. Chapter 104: Party Dresses (Bleugh)

**For Cass, as a pre-round challenge to the fourth year of the Houses Competition. Hermione Granger. In a magical, mildly AU where Hermione, Luna, and Ginny are all in the same year. And Hogwarts has a prom.**

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Hermione Granger. Hi, yeah, that's me. Bookworm. Bushy-haired. Ballsy, or so I have been told.

Usually the one to hang around with guys more than girls, and mostly because other girls and I just don't get along. And yet, here I am. Trying on prom dresses with Ginny and Luna, feeling slightly ridiculous but _very pretty_. Like a princess. And I hate that I love it. Floating chiffon, streaming silk, shuffling across the floor in heels provided by the annoyingly annoyed shop assistant (though I doubt she can help it, retail is hard work).

The other two are jabbering on about their dates, but all I can think about is my parents. Should I have taken the spell off them for this? Because, while they may not be able to understand Transfiguration homework, or Wand Law, or even something like Potions (which is the nearest to their professions, having been trained medically), they understand a prom. A prom where muggle dresses are allowed, and the gowns don't have to be wizardly, like at the Yule Ball.

Molly is great. Arthur is lovely. But I miss them. Can't help it.

I'm afraid that if I take the memory charm off, it will ruin things, and I will have done something completely irreversible. Though it is known that I'm pretty good with spells, what if I've done something wrong? What if something was ever so slightly off when I first tried the incantation? And I made a teeny mistake that means that removal of the spell results in something totally terrible happening.

Anyway. I'm spiralling. Shouldn't let that happen.

For now, I'm just gonna shhhh and wear the pretty dresses. I'll think about my parents tomorrow.

Seems healthy.

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	105. Chapter 105: Cooking Like A Muggle

**Ravenclaw HoH, Drabble for Round Two. Prompt: Cooking with muggles as a witch/wizard. WC: 788**

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"You know," Fred starts, leaning against the kitchen countertop. I know exactly what he's going to say, for about the sixtieth time today. Almost inadvertently, I roll my eyes. "When we first started going out, I never really thought about all of your muggle cooking. Knives, I understand, but manual labour?" He laughs to himself, and I know it's all a skit he's made up in his head. He thinks he's such a comedian. "I'm concerned about the gadgets in your kitchen. Not that I'm not glad that your parents have invited us over, let alone let us cook."

I turn away from the stove, hand hovering over the pan to check the heat. Seems fine at the moment, but boiling a large pan of water will always take a while. While I wait, I'll just have to get everything else going. Fred is still babbling when I turn the oven to 160 degrees.

"And I love food, I do. I enjoy your cooking. I am an awful cook, though, Hermione. You know this. Remember that time I gave you food poisoning?" he asks, imploring. He's almost believable. But he's a Weasley twin. At least seventy-percent of what he says is a joke or a farce. I know that, have known that for a while now.

"I remember it vividly. I told my mother - she was horrified," I say.

He latches onto this information. "Which is why I'm so surprised that they're letting us cook this weirdly complicated dinner. Sunday Lunch? More like Monday Morning Sickness."

"In all honesty, Fred, I'm surprised they let you in the house half the time," I say in reply, grinning at him, "based on everything else I tell them about you."

"Rude."

He knows I've got him now. There's no use in arguing anymore, even though it's not a real fight.

"True." I throw a bag of carrots at him, which he catches deftly in one hand. Damn Quidditch players, all so quick with the reflexes. He looks at the carrots like they are some sort of foreign entity, and is even more wildly bemused by the peeler that I slide across the counter. "Four carrots. Peeled and chopped. You can have a knife when I'm comfortable that you know what you're doing and won't harm the food."

"You're not afraid of me hurting myself?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

I shake my head, shrugging. "You're a big boy. Plus, Sunday Lunch is important. Don't ruin the carrots."

"You're so mean to me."

And yet, he starts peeling the carrots like he knew what he was doing all along. I laugh quietly to myself while he mutters. Of course, he wouldn't try anything if I asked him not to. My parents don't know about him - that he's a wizard. When I tried to restore their memories two years ago, a couple of months after the war ended, they had completely forgotten that I'm a witch. I chose to leave things like that, to hide that bit of myself. It's been easy enough for me.

"Hermione?" Fred asks, pulling me back to the present. "What is this cupboard and why is it so hot? Surely, that's dangerous?"

I raise my eyebrows, halfway between laughing and feeling sorry for him.

"Did you put your hand in the oven?" I ask.

"I was looking for spices."

"With carrots?"

"Add some extra flavour. Is that wrong?"

Just then, my mother walks into the room, and stares at the scene. Fred, clutching his burnt hand. Carrots, mutilated. Me, watching water boil. And a baking tray shuddering on the floor, making an awful clanging noise. We freeze, as if caught in the act. There's always that sudden fear when one of my parents walks into a room and we're unprepared, not sure if we're behaving totally normally or not. I guess, when you're in a relationship with a Weasley Twin, normal behaviour is unusual.

"Everything all right in here?" she asks, completely perplexed.

"All good, mum," I reply. "Fred just burnt his hand, that's all. Fred, run it under the cold tap."

"Goodness, what have you done to the carrots?" my mother laughs.

"I'm a terrible cook," Fred admits from the sink, relishing in the cold water. "I'm the worst with carrots."

My mother just smiles at him like he is a lost puppy. Which, honestly, is exactly what he looks like.

"Hermione was never any good with carrots either," she says. _Thanks, mum._ "I'll show you how it's done."

And just like that, I forget, for a moment, that there is any distance between Fred and my parents, that they have a mutual understanding of each other. For a moment, it's complete bliss. A simple, wonderful, normality.

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	106. Chapter 106: Tired of Love Songs

**A Gift Fic presented to vapourtrails for their work in Round Two of the Houses Competition!**

 **Prompt: Wolfstar, I'm so tired - Lauv, Troye Sivan**

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Sirius Black was tired of love songs. It was hard not to be, because they were everywhere. Telling their own stories of success, trying to explain how love worked, how things should be. But Sirius knew that they were wrong, and that love was not the same as in the love songs. Not for him, anyway.

Love songs didn't talk about the complications that existed in real love. Because there aren't just two options: they love you, or they don't. There's everything else in between. For example, if someone loves you, but doesn't want to accept that you could be good together. If they think that they wouldn't work in a relationship. If they think that they are unloveable, which is the opposite of what you think. The opposite of what Sirius thought about Remus Lupin. Remus just couldn't see it yet.

Some days Sirius was even tired of the love itself. It was frustrating to feel something so strongly and yet not be able to articulate in a way that the other person can comprehend it. It was an impossible task and some days it was increasingly difficult to be as patient as he wanted to be.

So he partied. He went out, he tried drinking and dancing away the fears again. He kissed girls, knowing that he didn't feel anything. He couldn't. Not for anyone except for Remus. At the end of the night, when all was said and done, he was left staring through the window, wondering whether Remus was doing the same; wondering whether Remus was thinking about him too.

If he did, he didn't say anything.

Sirius would wait. He could hold out for the perfect love a little longer.

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	107. Chapter 107: Hermione's Birthday

**Round 4, HoH Ravenclaw, Drabble, Character: Bill Weasley, Prompt: Birthday, WC: 526 (as of Google Docs)**

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Hermione Granger's twenty-first birthday. It was highly anticipated, what with her being the first of the trio to turn so. It was never going to be a small affair, especially not with the Weasley family having fully integrated her into their lives, which was far from the quiet that she might have been used to. The problem being that she'd never liked noise or too many people. She had never liked crowds, or parties, or especially large social groups.

Bill was more used to being the life of the party - of course, not as much as his younger brothers. Tonight, though… he didn't feel it. There was that age-old unsettling feeling in his stomach. Call it anxiety. Sadness. He could only describe it as being hungry for something that he couldn't comprehend yet. Only something _more_. Something with more _substance_.

Of course, as Hermione came rushing out of her own party, all he could do was stand up and follow her with his worrying eyes. He set down his beer and called after her.

"Hermione!"

She spun on the spot. In the moonlight, her tear-tracks glimmered silver.

"Oh."

"Bill," she breathed, only half smiling, as though there wasn't quite enough energy in her. He didn't understand. "I just… I needed some air. Or a drink. Or to change my shoes. Take your pick."

He tried to smile back, but it felt just as awkward as hers looked.

"All viable excuses." Bill sighed. "But what's really going on?"

"So you _do_ see right through me," Hermione said, voice thick with tears even though she tried to laugh. "I guess there's no harm in spending the penny of my thoughts."

"You do say some half odd stuff sometimes, Hermione," he said. "Sorry. Go on, tell me."

She walked three metres across to the bench positioned between a bed of peonies, and Bill followed, concerned. "It's Ron," she said, like it was the most simple thing in the world. "In there, with Lavender. Him being with her. I guess that I never expected her to be, you know, _the long game_. I thought it was just a fling. I always thought it would be me and him."

Bill nodded like he understood. And he did, in a way. Hermione and Ron were best friends - it was one of those things people sometimes believed, that you should end up with your best friend. But that wasn't true at all. It didn't have to be.

"Ron isn't the only guy in the world," he said.

"He's the only guy I ever thought might like me."

"I hate to say it, Miss Granger," Bill started, almost grinning, "but you might just be wrong there."

She shoved her shoulder against him and smiled properly.

"I just feel funny tonight," she said. "Like… Off. I can't explain it."

Bill smiled. "I get it. It's a weird evening."

Together they sat in companionable silence for some time, the early-autumn air cooling around them. Soon, it felt like time enough had passed and they could return to the party with a little more light in their step, and comfort in a newfound friendship amongst the shrubbery.

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	108. Chapter 108: Hound in the Night

**A Gift Fic awarded to Tsu for their amazing work on the Ravenclaw team in Round Four of the Houses Competition!**

 **edit: I know I had the wrong AN for this to start with but yay fixed now**

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"Come on, it's not much further," James said, dragging Rose along with him by the hand. She shook him off, scowling. "It's not my fault you wandered off. That was all you."

James walked on ahead a little. Darkness shrouded them, only broken by the wand-light casting a faint yellow glow around them. He was clearly comfortable in the shadow; his house was too big and there was plenty of room there to grow from being scared. Rose was not the same. She was afraid of the dark, and more than this she was afraid of the things that were in the dark.

"I'm older than you, you know," she tried.

"No, you're really not," he parried.

He turned around in his path to look at her. Rose looked scared, her face oddly misshapen in the light around them. His wand-light flickered - unusual, or so he thought - and dimmed ever so slightly. Rose was intelligent, but for Merlin's sake why had she walked so far from the main Baskerville campsite? The rules had been pretty clear. Stay close. It was just beyond frustrating that she hadn't listened, and now they were in this situation. Stuck in the dark, not totally certain of the route back, with limited magical resources. James Sirius Potter would not admit that he was not totally comfortable being in the dark - certainly not to someone who would repeat this fact.

"What's that?" Rose asked sharply, her eyes caught on something behind him that he couldn't see. He raised an eyebrow. She was obviously trying to bait him. Humouring her, he turned, and then froze. Cold blood ran through his veins, and ice filled his heart. "It's not a patronus," Rose said, continuing.

"Yes, I can see that," James said.

It looked _almost_ like a patronus. It was uncanny. The air around it was glowing, shimmering, like a patronus. But… But… It was enormous. He had never known anything quite like it. Larger than a bear. He was sure that his father would have some sort of explanation with a creature he had battled, and that Rose's mother would know of some lore that could pinpoint the origins of it. For now, however, neither of them were there. It was him and Rose, against some quickly-approaching Hell Hound.

"Maybe it's one of those will o' wisps," Rose suggested, a quaking in her voice.

"Yes, and maybe it's Cerberus, but I don't really fancy finding out," James said sarcastically. He looked around quickly and, seeing no one, cast a _muffliato_ charm on the both of them. "Slowly, quietly. We have to move past it."

"Fine."

James Sirius and Rose both sucked in breaths and cast their way through the dark. The creature followed them, snuffing around in the shadows. Every so often they caught sight of it. Jaws and claws and paws, larger than anything they had ever imagined.

When they finally reached the campsite, neither one of their parents seemed worried. Not even when Rose shouted that they had seen the _Hound of Baskerville_. In fact, Hermione just smiled and asked if she had been reading Sherlock.

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	109. Chapter 109: Nightmares

**A Gift Fic awarded to AJ for their amazing work on the Ravenclaw team in Round Four of the Houses Competition!**

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Harry was screaming again. It happened sometimes, and the doctors called something wack like nightmares. Draco didn't quite understand the terms that the Muggle professionals had been sprouting at them since three months ago. PTSD. And night terrors. Depression. He didn't understand how these were _medical_ terms. They were things that just happened, weren't they? They were part of life.

But Harry was screaming again. And that wasn't okay.

With gentle hands, Draco touched Harry's shoulder and shook him ever so slightly, to get him awake. This usually stopped him. Magic sparked down Harry's arms - another remnant of the trauma that no Muggle doctor would have detected - and crackled in his fingers. Draco shifted away, remembering the first time this had happened. The sparks had shocked him backwards from their bed and he had been unwell for a week. But he didn't know what else he was supposed to do. The man he loved was in pain, and that should be his priority at all times.

"Harry, Harry," Draco said to him. "Wake up."

Harry twitched and broke away from Draco's soothing touch. "No - No, don't hurt him." He was crying, tears streaming down his face, making the bed sheets wrapped tightly around him slightly damp. Draco reached for him again, desperate to wake him from whatever he was dreaming.

"Harry, wake up!" he said again, louder this time, imploringly. He shook him again.

With a start, Harry sat up in bed, panting heavily. He was covered in cold sweat - it shone on his skin in the dull silver moonlight. Draco shuffled back, momentarily relieved.

"Draco?" Harry asked, turning to him in trepidation. Draco nodded, understanding. Often when Harry woke, he was disorientated. He thought he was still inside the dream and couldn't tell quite what was real anymore. "You're alive."

"I am," he replied. "You're not dreaming anymore."

Harry visibly sagged. "Thank Merlin for that." He reached for Draco and pulled him close. "I'm so glad you're alive."

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	110. Chapter 110: Toast on a Bad Day

**HoH, Ravenclaw, Drabble, Prompt: Toast, on homemade bread. With good whipped butter and strawberry preserves., WC: 370**

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"I made you something," Ron calls up the stairs to me, a gentle reminder that I'm not as alone as I feel today. I start to shift towards him and the bed creaks loudly. Dammit. "Stay in bed, I'll bring it. Honestly, Hermione, anyone would think you weren't on bed-rest or something."

"Well, I don't _want_ to be on bed-rest," I say as Ron reaches the landing and watches me from the doorway, grinning. "Look at me, I'm fine. Healthy as a horse."

"Hermione, you're huge," he replies.

"That is so rude."

Ron just laughs.

"Don't laugh at me, Ronald," I say, frustrated for the sixtieth time this morning since being sent home from the doctor's. "This is entirely your fault. You and your stupid Weasley-ness. I'm enormous. Monstrous, even. I can't imagine what it's going to be like pushing this baby out of me in a month's time. A month, Ronald, a month! I just cannot believe it. I've always been healthy until you come near me and suddenly I'm on bed-rest - _stop laughing at me_!"

"I can't help it," he says. "I love you, and I'm excited for our baby. Now, look. Food."

Here, he has my attention. Like any other gigantic pregnant woman, food is constantly on my radar.

"It's all fresh," Ron continues, walking further into the room. He sets the tray on the dresser and moves closer so he can sort out my pile of cushions. Then he brings over a plate of jam on toast. My heart wells and my eyes start to fill with tears. "The bread is homemade - your favourite, and gluten free. The jam is fresh too, from strawberries my mother brought over yesterday afternoon. And the butter, whipped. Hey, no, don't cry, it's just food."

I sniff loudly. "Oh Ron, it's so lovely. I'm just... I'm so allergic to strawberries." His face falls. "I thought you knew. I'm so sorry."

"It's alright, really," he says, taking the food away. "I'll eat it. And I'll get you something else. Tacos?"

"For breakfast?" I ask.

"If you want -"

"Yes!"

He grins at me, presses a swift kiss to my cheek, and disappears again. Maybe bed-rest won't be quite so awful, after all.

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	111. Chapter 111: Things Have Changed For Me

**A Gift Fic for Newt for their amazing work in Round 6 of the Houses Competition! Prompts were "That Green Gentleman" song and Harry Potter.**

 **Harry is dropping out of the Auror program.**

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"You're dropping out?" Kingsley asked Harry, leaning back in his chair in surprise. Harry just nodded in reply, trying to remain as calm and casual as physically possible. Kingsley pursed his lips. "And this… Does this have anything to do with Ginny? I know you two were close."

"Nothing has to do with her anymore," Harry muttered. Then he recovered, smiling back at the man across the desk. "No, this is entirely about me. I just feel like a change."

Kingsley narrowed his eyes. "A change from the only job you've ever wanted?"

"Yes." Then Harry thought he should elaborate, "I don't mind staying within the Ministry, but I feel like I'm done with being an Auror. I know it seems like a big character change, but it's just not something I want to do anymore. I'm ready for a quiet life. And I'm not just doing this for the sake of making a change, I genuinely feel like this is the right move."

"Right," Kingsley said, obviously still not totally believing in Harry's sanity. "And this has nothing to do with Ginny leaving you for Dean? Not just as your boss, but as your friend, I know that that upset you - as it would do, her being… Your wife and all."

"Ginny left months ago," Harry bit out, starting to get angry. The man wouldn't take him seriously and it was frustrating. Why couldn't he see that Harry was so obviously desperate for a change in his life and that it had nothing to do with the world that was crumbling around him? "This is about me and my life - I just need to do something different. Please. Things have changed for me, so I need a change. It doesn't matter who she's kissing, or what my dreams were. I just need something different."

For a moment, it looked as though Kingsley was deliberating this argument.

"This is only because I trust you," Kingsley said eventually, still frowning. "If you really think that this is going to help. I'll get you a department swap. But just know, if you want to come back - literally any time - you will be more than welcome."

Kingsley stood up and Harry took that as indication that he should too. The two men shook hands, and Harry left the Minister's Office feeling a little less dead inside than when he had entered.

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	112. Chapter 112: Beautiful Bella

**A Gift Fic for Elaine for her awesome work in Round 8 of the Houses Competition! Pureblood-James-Potter and his newbie friend, Bella.**

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"You know, you don't have to look quite so miserable," said a voice from beside him, bringing him back from reverie. "It is a party, after all."

"It comes with the territory," James Potter muttered, sipping at his firewhiskey. "Pureblood families. They like a party, but it's not the kind of party I want to be involved in."

"I get that," she said, slumping down into a chair. He glanced over at this, surprised that his somewhat irritable nature might actually prompt her to want to spend more time with him. "I'm Bella."

" _Beautiful,_ " James replied, translating.

"I'm not that fond of it. I'd rather have something badass, like… I don't know. Tyla, or Eve. Or Joan, like Joan of Arc," she continued. "Jade, maybe. Hard as nails, fightin' crime." At this, James had to crack a smile. "What's your name?"

"James," he said.

"I knew that," Bella murmured, playfully admonishing herself. "Dammit. Anyway, Mr. Potter, what are you doing here, all on your lonesome, at this fabulous pure-blooded party? Surely, it's not the caviar or the party tricks that have you bored out of your tiny mind?"

"My mind isn't tiny."

"No, your brain is about as large as your head."

James shook his head in amusement. "Bella, you make absolutely no sense."

"What's the point in making sense? When nonsense is so much more enjoyable."

"You are an enigma, Bella." James sipped at his firewhiskey some more and smiled at the pretty girl next to him. Damn if her name didn't suit. Brunette, olive skinned, and striking blue eyes. He liked the sarcasm too. It was a much-needed break for the drama that was surrounding the day.

"Tell me your secrets, James Potter," she said, leaning closer to him, so much that he could smell her sweet, floral perfume. It was completely intoxicating. Although, perhaps he was just intoxicated on a more general level.

"I don't even know your full name," he replied, copying her movements and leaning closer.

"Trust me, you don't want to."

"Why, what have you done?" he asked, raising a single eyebrow and putting down his drink. She was more interesting than perhaps he might have considered. A name he shouldn't want to know. Certainly enticing. "Go on, I think I can handle it."

"Nah," she said, leaning backwards, breaking the moment between them. James frowned for a moment. "Come on, there are better things we can do than talk about me. Let's take a walk. I want to see inside this massive house, anyway. Exploring the actual location of a pureblood party - there's a first time for everything."

She reached for his hand. For a moment, he thought to snap it away, to continue being bored and alone because that was the way things were in his household, but then… She was looking at him, with a sparkle in her eye, and there was just something about her that was so goddamn interesting. She was different, and she was fascinating, and she was so beautiful. Why wouldn't he take her hand?

"I don't bite, James," she said, encouraging him.

 _What the heck._

And he allowed her to pull him away with her, into the brightly lit mansion that surrounded their extravagant party.

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	113. Chapter 113: Fred Weasley

**A Gift Fic for Elaine for her continued awesomeness as Ravenclaw Prefect for Year 4 of the Houses Competition!**

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Gorgeous. Ginger. Hilarious. Words that are synonymous with Fred Weasley.

Fred Weasley is like the firework you can't wait to go off. Because it's thrilling, and it's spectacular. It's clever and mesmerising, and colourful and brilliant. And there's that something unexpected about him that works in his favour. He deals in surprises and comedy, and he loves more powerfully than anyone I have ever met. His smile is infectious, as is his quick-witted personality. When around him, I feel funnier, prettier, and more in love than I could have thought possible.

I am the opposite of the kind of girl one might expect someone like Fred Weasley to be dating. While he might be at the top of the chain, Mr. Popular, I am down the other end. Nerd. Bookish. Quirky.

And yet…

It works. I don't know why or how, just that I am so happy to have Fred in my life. He walks me between classes when he has free periods, and I let him bounce invention ideas off me when he has them. Him and his brother invite me to the upperclassman parties, but if I want to leave he'll take me home.

Fred is perfect. And, together, we just _work._

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	114. Chapter 114: Harry Potter

**A Gift Fic for AJ for their continued excellence as Ravenclaw Head Student for Year 4 of the Houses Competition!**

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Harry Potter is the unexpected love of my life. But he is an idiot.

Something that I regularly shout around the manor goes like this _Potter, what in Merlin's name are you doing_ , and for good reason. Last week, him and his ginger friend were playing keepy-uppy with an ancient magical artefact that happened to be in the shape of a ball. When I burst into the room, having heard loud crashes and seen lightning flashes, they were kicking the ball about, laughing raucously. I knew for a fact that they were seconds away from being exploded into smithereens.

And while I don't particularly care for the Weasley, I have a fondness for my bespectacled boyfriend.

"That could kill you, you know," I said to him, snapping away the device from the two of them. Ron was halfway to a scowl before he realised that I was also protecting him. For another moment, he looked conflicted between murdering and thanking me, but resolved for silence. Then,

"Alright, Harry. I gotta get back to Hermione - seven months pregnant and she's practically eating for five." They slapped hands and did a weird little dance that I recognised from previous Weasley visitations, then Ron apparated away. He has special dispensation to be able to here, because I'm in love with Potter.

Not that I mind all that much. I'm a little more used to him now.

Plus, it means that I get to be with Harry, and that's all that really matters.

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